


Fourth Time's a Charm

by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa- (strangeandintoxicating)



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Being an Asshole, Akechi Goro joins Shujin because he’s a drama queen, Akira Kurusu is bitter and jaded and I don't care, Bastardization of Persona Series lore (because why not), Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, M/M, New Game+, New Phantom Thieves, Time Loop, Time Travel, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25746088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandintoxicating/pseuds/Strange%20and%20Intoxicating%20-rsa-
Summary: The first time, he’d done everything right— defied a God, saved the world, protected his friends. Whatever.The second time, he’d met a girl he hadn’t noticed the first time through, gone up against a dream reality and won, saved the princess from her dead sister’s memory. No big deal.The third time, he’d stopped giving a shit because what was the point? The last time, he tried and tried and tried and failed and got punched in the face for the trouble.The world was saved, Goro Akechi was dead, and Akira Kurusu was, again, waking up on the same godforsaken train pulling into Shibuya station.At least this time Akechi remembered.Oh, joy.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Kurusu Akira/All the Ladies (past), Kurusu Akira/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi (past)
Comments: 198
Kudos: 477





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will admit blatant inspiration from Xov's _L'appel du vide_ , CremeDeLaClaire's _Twisted Fates_ , and my favorite, beeandtoes' _Once More, With Feeling._ I'm a sucker for time travel, time loops, and fixing fucked up endings. 
> 
> This was only intended on being about 5 chapters, and not the fic I was originally writing. Maybe one day I'll get into that one. Honestly, just taking a break from my other fandoms is helping my mental health. I don't know if I'll write more than this one fic and call it a day, but... anything to get out of the nasty slump I've been suffering over the last month is better than nothing. I've been battling severe, crippling depression for the last several months, and this is the first thing that has made me want to really write anything at all.
> 
> Because of that, Akira's depressed. Like. Really depressed.
> 
> Warnings for canonical death, canonical violence, nihilism, mentions of cheating in one timeline (It was the Valentine's Day where all of Akira's girlfriends showed up and beat him half to death... lol) as well as mentions of Akira/Sumire in the second timeline. 
> 
> Also, I'm bad at math but I'm not _that_ bad.

The first time, he’d done everything right— defied a God, saved the world, protected his friends. Whatever. 

The second time, he’d met a girl he hadn’t noticed the first time through, gone up against a dream reality and won, saved the princess from her dead sister’s memory. No big deal. 

The third time, he’d stopped giving a shit because what was the point? The last time, he tried and tried and tried and _failed_ and got punched in the face for the trouble. 

The world was saved, Goro Akechi was dead, and Akira Kurusu was, _again_ , waking up on the same godforsaken train pulling into Shibuya station.

At least this time Akechi remembered.

Oh, joy.

* * *

It began exactly where it’d ended— on a train. 

The lingering taste of disappointment clung to Akira Kurusu's lips as he stared at the same mindless girls prattling on about mental shutdowns, just like they had the _first_ go-round. He figured, considering he’d gone through the same god-forsaken day enough times he’d memorized what they were saying, that they’d figure out a new topic to eventually talk about.

But, no. Mental shutdowns this, pretty boy Goro Akechi that; no matter how many times Akira lived through the monotony of April 9th, everything started the same. 

Akira pushed up his glasses and _sighed_.

The first time he’d been on the train, he’d been so nervous. Palms slick, sweat across his brow, throat tight— he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, then. He was stuck in a prison of his own making because he couldn't keep his damn nose out of shit.

The second time around, he’d woken on the train from the nightmare of Masayoshi’s hands on that woman and felt… Not anger. It wasn’t anger that he felt. Anger only came when he’d woken up the third-time round, when he’d found himself staring at the annoying girls and their annoyingly cheerful laughter and their annoying whispers of _mental shutdowns_ and _Akechi Goro_ , like they were mocking him. 

There’d been righteousness and… hope, even. He could fix things, could make things right. He was given a second chance, after all. 

And things _had_ changed. He’d met Kasumi— _Sumire_ — and actually bothered to visit the counselor when Kawakami told him to. Those little actions, so small and insignificant-seeming, had thrown everything on its head. 

Maruki’s twisted world flashed in Akira’s mind, then. It’d been a beautiful world on the surface, but the moment he’d so much as sneezed the entire thing distorted into something so ugly and twisted and… and…

He’d rejected Maruki and everything he represented, despite knowing that it would kill Akechi in the end. And it _had_ killed him, that was something Akira knew for a fact.

In the first timeline, when things had been so much simpler, Akira remembered the body of the teenage boy found in Kokkai-gijidomae station. He’d been broken and twisted, barely even recognizable as human, but Akira _knew_ it was him. 

To the rest of the world it had been just some dead boy with no one to mourn him. Except... 

Akira glanced out the window at the perfect spring sky. It was so beautiful that Akira could, if he wanted to, pretend like everything was _okay,_ that this was exactly what he needed, that this unending year was a blessing.

In the last timeline, Akira had contemplated taking Maruki up on the offer if only to spite whatever deity had fucked with him enough to start the time loop all over again. He’d suggested it on that fateful February night, almost flippantly, only for Akechi to punch him in the face. 

Akira raised his hand to his lips, almost able to taste the bitter tang of blood in his mouth and Akechi’s hands wrapped around his throat. 

_“Don’t even **joke**.” _

_“Who said anything about joking?”_

If Akira were honest with himself, he’d _probably_ deserved it, just like he _probably_ deserved getting decked by every girl he knew on Valentine’s day that one time. Dating all of them at once had been a very, very bad idea. 

So, at least that was one thing he’d definitely avoid this time. One of many, many things.

Sighing again, Akira reached down to his shoulder bag, sliding it open to the consternation of the guy sitting next to him. He would have apologized had this been the first time or even the second time, but he knew the non-response he’d get either way, and it was easier not to waste his breath. Who knew being an asshole was easier than being _nice?_

_Akechi had._

Swallowing the thought down, Akira shuffled one of his shirts to the side and peered at the contents of his bag. Paradise Lost and Tyrant, at least, had made the trek with him. That was better than the second time when all he had was Arsene’s Cane, From Heaven, and Ryuji’s crappy-ass chocolate that had melted down to the bottom of his bag. It took Morgana complaining for a week for Akira to clean it out.

No chocolate this time— just a little slip of shiny paper folded into a neat square: a reminder from his past-self to his future-self, no matter how many there would be.

Not opening it, Akira slipped it into the inner pocket of his Shujin uniform before glancing back down into the mess that was his bag.

The jingling from the bag had caught one of two curious glances, but Akira had gotten used to the stares long ago. Instead, he slid the bag between his thighs to muffle the sounds of clanking metal, reaching down to grab a few of the trinkets. Akira surreptitiously glanced at the guy next to him just to make sure he hadn’t decided to get nosy this loop. He definitely didn’t need to see the hundred or so rings and variously knick-knacks from his friends haphazardly tossed in there. 

The guy seemed as entranced with his phone as he had been all the times before, so Akira shuffled a few more rings around in his bag until he found the one he’d been looking for. 

At least he now had a ring of sorrow for himself and a crystal to spare. Jose would be willing to upgrade it when he made his way into Mementos. If, nothing else, it would make kicking that fucking Reaper’s ass more possible this time around. How was it that Akira had fought against God himself and still couldn't beat one measly Reaper? 

_It's not worth thinking about_ , Akira told himself as he continued to dig for the ring of sorrow.

The first time, he hadn’t wanted to touch the damn thing; the pain had been too much, too visceral. Still, sticking with the ring of lust through the next timeline hadn’t led him anywhere good, either. 

Glancing down, Akira caught sight of a set of red rings, wiggling them out with his pinky nail. 

_Let those damn rings fuck up someone else’s life_ , Akira thought as he glanced at the interlocking ruby rings. One had been bad—more had been far, far worse. 

It would’ve been best to shove those ones under his bed and hit up Tanaka’s Shady Commodities with an exchange when he got the chance to sneak off to Akihabara. Tanaka had always seemed more than willing to trade for some of Akira’s more obscure shit, and Akira would be happy to be rid of them. 

Why he hadn’t gotten rid of them after the Valentine’s Day fiasco was anyone’s guess, but… it didn’t matter. 

It wasn’t like anyone remembered, anyway. 

Akira pushed the rings away, instead focusing on the opalescent ring that made his throat close and his stomach churn.

The ring of sorrow reminded him of shattering diamonds underfoot and unspoken dreams. It looked a lot like the tinge the world had taken on in Maruki’s cognition if Akira tilted his head at just the _wrong_ angle.

He’d tried to break it open with a hammer on the last Valentine’s Day, but all it did was leave steel dust and a near-perfect circle on the counter just in front of the second to last chair. 

Akira thought, briefly, about pawning it off like the rings of lust, make it someone else’s problem, but…

No. He... he couldn't. Instead, Akira slipped the ring onto his ring finger, and it fit almost like a promise.

_Ladies and gentleman, thank you for riding with us today. We will be arriving in Shibuya shortly. This is the last stop for this line. Please transfer here for all subway lines. The doors to your left will open._

Akira reached into his pocket for his phone, staring down at the time even though he already knew what it’d say. 

2:34. Just like the last time. And the one before that. And the one before that. And—

And just like it would when this timeline ended, too. 

Just like it would be 7:39 when Goro Akechi slammed the watertight doors down, trapping himself in with his cognitive double to die a miserable death over and over again. 

Just like Akechi’s body turning to ash as the sun crested the horizon on that bitterly cold February 4th.

Almost like God was mocking him, Akira’s fingers brushed against the soft leather glove nearly hidden under jewelry and cheap patches. He didn’t need to look at it to know what it was, but he looked anyway. 

This was the first time the glove, _his_ glove, had made the trek into the festering shithole that was April 9th.

Akira ripped off the ring and threw it into the bottom of the bag, hand freezing and burning and _aching_. Zipping it up with more force than necessary, he tossed the bag over his shoulder and stood before the train even pulled into the station. His shoulder ached, his head thrummed, and really— Akira Kurusu was getting too old for this shit.

Maybe the ring of lust wasn’t that bad, after all. 

* * *

Things went exactly as they had all the other times before. He’d stood there at Shibuya Scramble, staring at the crowd as the world went silent and so very _still_ , as he waited for Arsene to make his grand appearance. 

He wasn’t disappointed. 

He could feel the persona digging into the back of his mind, claws sharp and pointed and reaching for all of his pain and anger and _sorrow_. It was almost a comfort, a reminder that he was alive even though, really, was he? 

Still, the splitting headache sucked just as much now as it did the first time, and the health patch he’d hocked off Takemi for half-off in one of the previous timelines only did so much to take away some of the bite. 

_Probably from the one where I cheated on her,_ Akira thought, rubbing the back of his neck in an effort to make the pain dull to a quiet roar. The ones from that timeline tended to be weak as shit. Hopefully this time he could score a discount or three for being such a good guinea pig, especially now that he knew Takemi’s weakness for crappy J-Pop and ugly cacti.

Plus, the not cheating thing.

Akira glanced around the ever-familiar underground path between the lines, letting his feet carry him where he knew he wasn’t needed. It was almost _strange_ to not see Yusuke people-watching from his favorite place next to the _105 Men’s_ shop, or Ann running around with her arms full of bags as she hit up all her favorite haunts in the underground mall.

Right now they were stuck in their own versions of hell, and there wasn't anything Akira could do about it.

In the second timeline he'd followed his footsteps to the letter, but in the third he'd tried to make things go faster. He tried to stop Shiho Suzui from jumping off the building, tried to expose Ichiryusai Madarame's abuses, tried to get the cops to bust Junya Kanashiro's sketchy dealings. He even tried to destroy Masayoshi Shido's attempt to overthrow the government, but... nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Zilch.

Diddly-squat.

Every time he opened his mouth, every time he tried to break the mold, nothing happened. It was like some twisted God had decided to make whatever he said come out of his mouth as some kind of joke. He'd tell them about the cover-ups, the extortions, the _assassinations_ and whoever he'd told would smile at him and laugh. Even Akechi, who'd figured out about Maruki's warped universe time and time again, would only blink at him and frown.

Thinking about it only made Akira's head thrum louder, and he winced as he rubbed at the back of his neck. What had Takemi told him about the patches?

Oh. Right. Food. 

Akira reached into the front pocket of his bag, pulling out his wallet with a little more force than necessary as he glanced at Yon-Germain Bakery’s piles upon piles of bread, noting the fruit danish Ann always raved about any time they passed the shop. In all of the previous timelines, Akira had never bothered buying one, but…

Why the hell not? It wasn’t like he didn’t have the cash— in fact, from the cursory glance at the impossibly-thick stack of bills his wallet could barely hold, he had more than enough to buy _all_ the pastries in the shop and then, maybe, even buy the damn shop itself. It was helpful that his money had carried through, but really... what kind of teenager carried around 15 million yen and a bag of weird-ass jewelry through Shibuya Station?

 _The Phantom Thieves_ _kind_ , Akira thought sourly as he stared at the fruit danish, willing it to be something else. It wasn’t anything like the summer selection. There’d been a time where Akira had stopped by every morning to buy tw—

“Too bad there’s no melon pan,” a voice next to Akira said, so casual and cool that just for a moment Akira stared at the glass counter, unable to breathe, let alone speak. He could see the reflection in the glass, like a ghost with too-harsh lines. “I’ve heard it’s so good it can bring back the dead.”   
  
Akira was dead. He was dead and this was the afterlife, because—

“Akechi,” Akira breathed out as his head snapped to the side, the boy in front of him almost seeming to fade from existence for a fleeting moment before coming into sharp contrast with the fluorescent lights overhead. He was wearing that ridiculous blue argyle sweater vest, hair tied up in a messy ponytail that Akira had _never_ seen him wear in _any_ of the previous timelines, and… 

“How—” 

Akechi didn’t look at him, instead staring down at the fruit danish as though the strawberries held all the answers to the universe. 

“It seems as though fate hasn’t quite fucked us enough for one lifetime,” Akechi mused, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a tight smile. “Would you agree?” 

“You— you remember?” It felt stupid coming out of his mouth, but it was too late to take it back. In all the other timelines he’d met Akechi at the television station, pancakes and lies and sweet nothings the only things to pass between them. He’d tried to tell him, screamed at the top of his lungs, but… nothing had worked. 

“G…” His name caught in Akira’s throat. “Akechi.” 

Akechi glanced at him through thick eyelashes, his mouth pulling even tighter, before he went back to staring at the glass counter. “You think I typically find myself speaking to random boys in front of bakeries, Kurusu?” His voice was light, friendly almost, but there was something in it that reminded Akira of late-night coffee and harsh goodbyes. “I would hope you had a little more intelligence that _that_. You’re not particularly impressive.” 

Akira let out a laugh, harder than he’d meant to and choked with _something_ , because at least Akechi being an asshole was a constant. At least… At least he _remembered_.

He _remembered_.

Akira swallowed, hard. 

“You sure did take your sweet time getting here.” There was something in Akechi’s voice, between the cold politeness and achingly perfect teeth, that made Akira’s mouth go dry. “I’ve been going to Leblanc every day for the last two months to no avail.” 

“Missed me that much, huh?” The words felt like starch in his mouth. Two months. Akechi had been here two months— all by himself, stuck in an unending year.

“You wish.” 

Akira’s stomach flipped as Akechi pulled out his phone. He tapped his screen for a second before sliding it back into his pocket, but Akira couldn’t look away from his hand, smooth and unblemished, a ring on Akechi's finger _almost_ like a promise.

Akechi was only wearing _one_ glove.

Only _one_.

Just as Akira opened his mouth he felt the familiar buzz of his phone in his pocket. He kept his eyes on Akechi, as if blinking or looking away would make the other boy disappear. Whatever it was could wait, because Akechi was _alive_ and Akechi _remembered_ , and—

Akechi only arched an eyebrow at him, eyes unblinking and gaze unwavering. “Are you going to get that, or will we just stand here and stare at one another a little longer?” 

Akira blinked, then blinked again, before reaching down for his phone. Of course this hadn’t happened in any of the timelines before. His chatbox had stayed blissfully empty until he gave his number to Ryuji.

His slick palms nearly dropped the phone, gaining him a very _undignified_ snort from Akechi. 

**2:49 Unknown  
** _Mementos. Now_. 

“Did you memorize my phone number?” Akira asked, but when he looked back to where Akechi had been standing, he was already gone. 

He tried to not look at himself in the glass, tried to forget what it meant for there to be hope, before he turned and followed the so-familiar sound of Akechi’s shoes tap-tap-tapping against the cold tiles, the cherry blossom petals caught underfoot. 

Those shoes... when was the last time Akira had seen Akechi in those brown loafers? 

It had to have been February 1st. Akechi’d worn his brown leather oxfords on the 2nd— the ones that had started to wear on the soles, just enough to look unsightly if Akechi braced a foot on his knee. 

As if Goro Akechi would ever brace a foot on his knee.

Those were the shoes Akira could remember watching Akechi polishing with a ferver he didn’t understand, rubbing and rubbing until the leather all but _glistened_ under the dim attic light. 

No; these were Akechi’s soft shoes, his comfortable ones. These were the shoes Akechi liked to wear at the Shinagawa aquarium, the blue light making him look like an apparition that would disappear if Akira touched him. These were the ones Akechi wore at Jazz Jin, sipping on virgin cocktails as he rested his elbow on the table, leaning against the back of his hand. Whenever his favorite vocalist was there, Akechi would tap his foot on the wood below, falling into that sweet serenity. That thump-thump-thump painted a song in Akira's head, one that'd worked its way in like an earworm into his very _being._

 _“You know, I’ve never brought anyone else here. It’s… a special place for me.”_

Akira didn’t try to catch up, didn’t try to raise attention to himself. The last thing he needed was for one of Akechi’s fangirls to see him and snap a picture of the two talking in low, hushed voices like they had in the last timeline.

That, Akira admitted to himself as he caught sight of Akechi turn down one of the lesser-used sets of stairs and disappear into darkness, had been a fucking disaster. For the entire month of November, any time Akira showed up within a kilometer radius of Shibuya, a hundred phones and eager fangirls followed them. 

It’d been particularly a pain in the ass considering Akira was supposed to be _dead_ for half the month. Getting in and out of Mementos had been a nightmare, especially considering all of the sneaking around Akira had done in hopes of figuring out a way of getting Akechi to _not fucking die_ … even if Akechi had shot his cognition in the face.

Repeatedly. 

_Fat load of good any of that did_ , Akira thought as he slinked around the corner, thankful that the usual homeless assassin Akira’d beaten to a pulp in every damn timeline was off somewhere… probably killing someone. 

He’d have to take care of that _again_ — 

“Already taken care of,” Akechi said, voice breezy and carefree, as if he wasn’t talking about flat-out _murdering_ someone. 

“You didn’t.” 

Akechi blinked. “I’ve been here for two months. What did you _expect_ I would do?” 

“ _Not_ kill people?” 

Akechi only gave a long-suffering sigh before he pulled out his phone, grabbing hold of Akira’s wrist with his other hand. His skin was _alive_ and warm and Akechi was _here_ and he _remembered_ — 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Akechi replied tartly as the world echoed and rang, the feeling of the Metaverse sliding around their bodies like a fever sweat. Even then, Akira didn’t look away from Akechi. “And if it makes you feel better, I didn’t _kill_ him.” 

It didn’t make Akira feel better, because there were a dozen things other than killing that Akechi knew how to do, and killing was one of the _nicer_ options. 

Instead, all Akira did was laugh out a, “Noted,” before looking around the entrance of Mementos. In some ways, it was like coming home— not a particularly nice home that Akira wanted to invite a stranger to have tea at, but home nonetheless. 

_They_ were home.

It was always eerie just how much damage Maruki had done to the cognitive world, his opalescent massacre somehow more twisted and ugly than the bleeding and oozing walls of Mementos. But still— Akechi was here, this time.

Akira wasn't _alone_.

Akira moved to reach out for the hand around his wrist, but Akechi reacted before he had the chance. 

“Apologies,” he said as he dropped Akira’s wrist without pause. 

“What're you _apologizing_ for?” Akira asked, a laugh escaping his throat as he went for Akechi’s hand again. But, just as he reached out, Akechi twisted away, turning his back on Akira as his argyle sweater disappeared into the blue and black of his Metaverse costume. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Akechi replied briskly as he began walking, only turning around when he seemed to notice Akira wasn’t with him. The way his eyes raked over Akira’s Shujin uniform, unchanging and certainly Joker-free, made Akira’s face warm. “No persona?” 

Akira shook his head, hands twisting around the bottom of his jacket. “Not until Monday.” Akira took a step forward with a big breath, closing the distance between Akechi and himself. He was so close, Akira could almost _feel_ him. He lifted up his hand, to do what he didn’t know. “It’s… it’s good to know you remember. I thought I’d go crazy if I had to do this one more time all by myself. I—” 

“Have you never heard of personal space?” Akechi countered as he pulled away, eyes narrowing and mouth pulling into a tight line as he batted Akira’s hand away for the _third_ time. “I’m aware this is a _unique_ situation, but there’s no need to be so _casual_. And what do you mean _one more time_? Just how many times have you done this?” 

There was nothing playful in his voice, nothing warm. 

“Oh.”

Just like that, Akira _knew_.

All of the hope, all of the fire in his belly, crumbled to ash and ice. 

And then, because there was nothing else Akira could say, because this Akechi was _different_ and this Akechi wasn’t _right_ , Akira let his outreaching hand fall limp at his side. After all was said and done, after all of the timelines, nothing had changed.

Joker and Crow, two rivals caught in a war between fickle gods and cruel fate.

“Three,” Akira finally said as he pushed his hands in his pocket, jutting his shoulders back as he pushed all his weight on one foot. “Three times.” 

Akechi was saying something, no doubt berating him for having lived through the timeline _three_ times without figuring out what was going on, but Akira couldn’t hear anything but the beating of his heart and the howls of something that couldn’t — wouldn’t— die in the depths of humanity's despair. 

For the first time since he’d woken up on the train all those timelines ago, Akira Kurusu finally understood what it meant to be truly alone. 

Pulling on his mask, Joker smirked at Akechi.

"You know what they say," Joker drawled, a hint of something dark and twisted and _foul_ ripping at his throat. His lips pulled into a sneer, one that felt so right and _wrong_ on his mouth. "Fourth time's a charm." 


	2. Chapter 2

Akira had dreamed about what he would say in this situation a thousand times. When he’d realized how much he _missed_ his friends and the closeness they’d shared after everything they’d been through, Akira had come up with scenario after scenario of what he’d do if someone, _anyone_ , remembered. 

Halfway through the third loop, Akira had accepted that if no one would remember, at least he could imagine what it would be like if he could just _tell_ them. It was a fantasy, a far-off dream that’d swallowed him whole, Akira not caring about the graze of teeth and the bottomless emptiness just for a moment. 

He’d run them from start to finish, over and over again as he stared blindly at the chalkboard he could recite by heart.

Morgana, of course, would take it at face value. He’d frown and then bat his paw against Akira’s shoulder until Akira had shared all the relevant details about Mementos and Palaces and the Quarantine Cell nestled deep within the bowels of humanity’s cognitive hell. He’d be disappointed, but his sense of purpose would never waver.

Ryuji would laugh at him until Akira told him about everything with Kamoshida, about things he shouldn’t have known but _did_ — like how Ryuji had gotten himself a little tattoo of his mom’s name on his right ankle when he was fifteen and stupid, or how he’d been in love with Ann since they were kids but he hadn’t gained the courage to do anything but slip chocolate bars into her bag whenever she looked sad— and though Ryuji could be brash and idiotic, Akira knew that no matter the timeline his best friend would have his back. 

Ann… Ann would go along with it when Akira told her about Shiho. They could save her from Kamoshida’s hell together, could stop her from getting on top of that ledge. She’d trust him because she’d always trusted him, ever since he’d run through the station trying to find her. 

Haru would also be easy to sway. She’d been so lonely for so long, and even though the only time Akira had dated her things had gone to hell and back (because Akira had been dumb and cruel and so _tired_ at that point) he’d known that all she wanted was her father’s love. 

In a way, Akira understood that better than almost anyone else.

Makoto and Yusuke would be harder to convince; Makoto because of her yearning desire to follow in her sister’s footsteps, her inability to break out of her shell, and Yusuke because of his loyalty to the man he’d considered both his savior and his jailer. It’d taken staring at the ugliness of themselves, of their cowardice and their silence, for them to break free from the chains wrapped around their throats and hearts. 

But they’d come around. They’d always come around, because at the core of their beings they were Phantom Thieves, willing to do what they knew was right, damn the consequences. They were brave and fearless and _just_ , and Akira could do nothing but envy them. 

Futaba… her Palace was already fully-formed and impenetrable. He’d tried to go poking through it in April back in the second timeline, but all the entrances had been bricked shut, the sweltering and blistering sun like a chain around Akira’s neck. He’d tried to climb to the top, to see if he could find her sarcophagus, but he’d met nothing but sand. 

As for Sumire…

Thinking about Sumire made Akira— not sad, but… _something_ he couldn’t quite put words to. She’d been the first girl he’d actually dated, though it’d taken waking up in the third timeline to realize it’d been a mutual kind of sweet fairytale lie they could tell each other and pretend like it made everything better. It still hadn’t stopped his addled brain from dating her again, but...

For Sumire, it’d been another form of escape from her sister’s shadow, a way of trying to figure out who she was without Kasumi. It’d taken meeting Sumire for the second time to realize just how badly he’d missed the signs, how he’d allowed himself to fall into her false cheerfulness because he’d needed someone who depended on him and looked up to him— someone he thought he could fix, could even _save_. 

Akira’d been so desperate to actually succeed in saving someone, of saving _anyone_ , it’d been almost easy to hide himself from reality, to not listen to the warning signs from the moment he’d bumped into her on the train. 

She’d been something new, something different, a puzzle he could sink his teeth into while he played out the same year over again and tried to figure out where he’d gone wrong. 

In the last loop, Akira had avoided Sumire as much as he could, but if anything his blatant attempt at ignoring her only made her _more_ persistent; showing up to Leblanc with her awful cooking, bumping into him at the library, sitting next to him at the planetarium. It was unsettling how much she yearned for his attention, though Akira could understand it in a way that made his bones ache.

Akira figured it out after his third run-in with Sumire, when she’d called herself _Kasumi_ and her classmates had giggled behind their hands, that the isolation wasn’t just self-inflicted. 

Calling her Kasumi back… It wasn’t easy, but what else could he do? It was hard enough to realize he’d helped break her into Kasumi-sized pieces the first time around. Knowingly helping after that… 

Akira didn’t think about what he’d say to Sumire. 

It was easier that way. 

But Goro Akechi…

He’d been the one Akira wanted to tell the most, especially after the second timeline. Akechi’d figured out what was happening with Maruki before Akira had even pieced it all together. He’d picked up the shattered pieces of his fuzzy memory and opted for the truth over his own life, and considering the fact that Akira had _lived through that already_ it made it just that much worse. 

If there was anyone in the world who could have figured out what was going with them, it would have been Akechi. 

Those hopes had been dashed in the third loop when he’d shown up on June 9th talking about his fucking pancakes all over again and every word out of Akira’s mouth had only made Akechi laugh his perfect Detective Prince laugh that made his teeth ache. It hadn’t mattered that he was screaming that they were trapped, that Akechi needed to listen because Akira needed him, needed Akechi to help fix the world again. 

All Akira got for his troubles was that trademark smile that hid the truth from prying eyes. 

_“You’re **very** interesting. I’d love nothing more than the opportunity to speak to you more, maybe even pick your brain— if that’s alright with you.” _

He hadn’t even thought about denying Akechi, though it wouldn’t have mattered if he did. Akechi had that way about him that made Akira say yes, even when he wanted to do nothing but say _no_. 

Instead, Akira dreamed of the way Akechi would sit in his seat, second to last at the counter, and run one gloved finger around the lip of his mug until the porcelain sang. Something would happen, then— a song on the television, a flitting memory of a string of words repeated so many times it almost felt mechanical— and Akechi would be like he was before, when it wasn’t just snark and jealousy and anger oozing out of all of his pores. 

Akira would have given all the stars in the sky if he could have gotten the Akechi from the last timeline back instead of…

Whatever _this_ one was. 

It wasn’t fair to be so judgemental; he was, at his core, the same faux ace detective prince with a chip on his shoulder and a daddy to destroy. He was the same bastard who’d shot him in the head, the same boy who’d begged him to destroy Shido before meeting his twisted, broken ending. He was the same man who’d knocked on the door after closing on February 2nd, hair dotted with snow and a chill that wouldn’t go— 

He was Goro Akechi, and no timeline or magic or _fate_ could ever change that. 

Akira shoved his hands into his pockets, trying his best to not interrupt Akechi as he paced up and down the entrance of Mementos, bare right hand lifted to his mouth in concentration.

This wasn’t the same. 

His sudden, albeit small, movement was enough to break Akechi’s concentration. Akechi spun on his heel with a sharp breath before glancing back at Akira, eyes barely slits through his mask. 

“Is it necessary for you to continue _sighing_?”

“I dunno— is it _necessary_ for you to run around in circles?” 

Akechi pursed his lips before adjusting his his mask. For a second, Akira thought that would be the end of it, but Akechi had never been one to spare the dramatics. 

“It’s possible— likely, even— that damaging the world’s cognition repeatedly over such a short period of time has hindered its ability to cope and follow in its fluidity. The research on cognition believed that time was constantly in a state of flux in correlation to the relative reality, so by all means it would make perfect logical sense.”

Akechi looked back up at Akira. “You said this is your fourth time experiencing this?” 

Akira paused for a beat too long before nodding his head. “It’s what I said.” 

Akechi made a noise, one that Akira didn’t quite understand, before he returned to wearing his shoes down to nubs. “Something must have changed within the last timeline to allow me to become aware. Perhaps this is the recoil of collapsing cognitions on such an extreme scale,” he murmured, staring down at the ground in consternation. “It’s certainly something I’d never considered _feasible_ , but very little in the field of cognitive psience ever is.” 

Akira had long ago gotten used to Akechi’s deductions on what only he could understand, but after spending so much time with Akechi, he was pretty sure he was able to translate at least some of what he was going about. “Recoil? Like, what—”

“No, not _actual_ recoil damage, you idiot,” he began, but Akira only raised an eyebrow. 

“I was _going_ to say,” Akira continued without letting Akechi speak over him, “That you think that because we took down Yaldabaoth, Maruki’s dream reality, and Mementos back-to-back that we may have inadvertently created a domino-effect that’s caught us in the time loop.” 

Akechi opened his mouth, looked Akira in the eye, and then just as promptly closed his mouth. “Something like that,” he grudgingly admitted before gesturing for Akira to follow him to a set of plastic seats that had yet to be engulfed by the roots sprouting up through the breathing lungs below their feet. “It still doesn’t explain why I’m able to remember when I wasn’t able to before.” 

“Yeah, I’ve got no answers on that. Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.” 

Akira made sure to sit one chair away from Akechi so as to not encroach on his space any further. He’d done enough damage in the first five minutes, and… 

_It’s better this way. It’s better to have the wrong Akechi than **no** Akechi._

“What exactly do you remember, anyway?” Akira asked when the tense silence grew overwhelming, the sounds of Mementos inhaling and exhaling only making his fingers dig into the plastic chair below him from purchase. He’d hoped he sounded casual, inoffensive, but it still got him a harsh glare. 

“Dying,” Akechi replied, and all the air in Mementos seemed to disappear with that one simple word. 

Akira swallowed and stared out into the darkness, at the spongy ceiling, at the veiny ropes that led further and further down to the Holy Grail. Akira thought about Yaldabaoth, about the monster sleeping under their feet, but…. In all the previous timelines, mentioning the loop to him in the Velvet Room was just as pointless as trying to say it to anyone else. 

“A— anything else?” 

He didn't want his voice to sound like that, sound so weak and pitiful. Akechi would notice because of course Akechi would, and Akira didn’t think he could look Akechi in the eyes if he did. After everything they’d gone through, after all of the fighting and pain and broken promises, Akira had never thought he’d have to look Akechi in the eye and explain to him in detail just how badly he’d failed. 

_I just keep letting you die,_ Akira thought as he glanced back at Akechi.

He wished immediately that he hadn’t.

“I have… vague memories of Maruki and his palace, though it’s almost as though they’re from a dream,” Akechi admitted, voice unwavering. “I remember meeting at the television station, my evenings at Leblanc, joining the Phantom Thieves in October. I… I remember shooting you.” That, at least, got Akira a glance. There was something there in his eyes; it didn’t look like pity nor apology, but it was _something_ , and something was always more than nothing at all. 

“Okay. Anything else?”

Akechi crossed one leg over his knee, throwing his gloved hand over his knee. 

That was new, too.

Huh.

“Your little _Cinderella_ ,” he spat, voice tempered like steel. “It was her unfortunate circumstances that led to Maruki even learning the existence of Shujin Academy and accepting a position in the first place.” 

“It’s not her fault her sister died.” 

Akira couldn’t see Akechi roll his eyes, but he could certainly feel it. 

“Actually, I can ascertain that it was, in fact, _her_ fault.” 

Akira swallowed. “She didn’t know—” 

Akechi raised his hand up, stopping Akira in his tracks. “I understand your need to play prince charming in front of someone so cowardly and weak, don’t don’t insult my intelligence. Or yours, for that matter. And anyway,” Akechi said with a shrug, “I witnessed it with my own eyes.” 

“You— what?” 

Akechi continued without pause. “She didn’t push her sister in front of the car, but had it not been for her careless behavior and reckless abandon, Kasumi Yoshizawa would still be alive and as annoyingly positive as her sister pretended to be. What an absolute mess—I had to throw out my favorite pair of trainers. She bled almost as much as _you_ did.” 

There was no humor in his words—just a harsh reality that made Akira grit his teeth together. 

Of course _this_ Akechi would talk like that about shooting his cognition in the face. He didn’t have any reason not to. But Akira caught something else in his words: admission. 

“You saw her die.” Akechi’s words rang in Akira’s ears. In the past timelines, he’d never arrived early enough to stop Kasumi Yoshizawa from dying; he’d always arrived on that peerless April 9th afternoon and not a second before. 

“We all watched her die, didn’t we?” Akechi reminded him. “But yes, I may have gotten the opportunity to see it first-hand. As I said, I’ve been here for two months. Did you expect that I would patiently sit and wait for you to make your entrance?”

Akira opened his mouth, but no words came out. 

“And, mind you, that was even _if_ you remembered. There was always the chance that you would have arrived as oblivious and naive as you did before, and I would have been stuck attempting to fix this mess on my own, as well.” 

There was a distinct lack of bite to his words, but Akira wasn’t sure if that had been on Akechi or _him_ , because at that moment he was barely able to hold on to anything Akechi was saying. 

Numbly, Akira realized that his fingernails had found themselves embedded in his thighs. 

“Oh, there’s no reason to act indigna—”

“You let her die.” 

At that, Akechi stilled, back straightening ever so slightly. He paused, almost as though he were weighing the pros and cons of his answer on the gold scales of his _justice_ , before finally answering. “I wasn’t the one running into oncoming traffic.” His voice was tempered, yes, but Akira could almost hear the fissure point about to crack.”She did that herself.” 

No. Akechi hadn’t done that. But… Akechi had _known_ it would happen, had been around when it happened, and— 

Akechi looked away.

Akira’s hands went lax. 

“You couldn’t do anything.” 

Akechi opened his mouth and shut it just as quickly, Akira catching a glimpse of pursed lips through the crow's mouth of his helmet. He took even longer to answer this time, annunciating each word as if it were his last.

“As meddlesome as I’m sure you’re aware, it seems that certain events are bound to happen, no matter our behavior.” He didn’t sound regretful, but Akira knew that voice— it was the same voice Akechi had used on February 2nd— on all the February 2nds. “By the time I arrived at the scene, she was already very much dead.” 

“I—” What could Akira even _say_? That he was _sorry_? That he wished he had answers? That he could tell Akechi that he’d get used to people dying on him over and over again?

“You tried.” 

The words rang hollow, but Akechi merely scoffed. 

“Just as you have, _dear_ leader?” 

Akira laughed, praying that Akechi didn’t hear anything hiding just behind the shadows. He’d tried—and failed.

“You’ve changed other things, haven’t you?” 

Akechi hummed and said nothing for a long moment before Akira leaned into the seat between them, knocking his elbow against Akechi’s arm. Akechi didn’t pull away, and that may as well have been a win in Akira’s book. 

“Yes.” Then, more softly, “Unfortunately not everything can be changed, though I’m certain your wallflower of a princess will survive. Your girlfriend tends to have the habit of _not_ dying.” Despite Akechi’s words, there wasn’t any anger or hatred in his words. Instead, it just sounded… pointedly blank. 

“She’s not my girlfriend.” 

That, at least, got Akechi to scoff. “My memories may be vague, but I most certainly remember her following you around like a lovesick, kicked puppy. And you certainly tried your best to be a knight in shining armor— as if that would impress anyone with actual taste.” 

Akira shrugged, leaning back against the plastic seat. The bite helped keep his mind from going places it shouldn’t. Snarky Akechi was always a welcome visitor. “Fine. We dated. You feel better?” 

Akechi ignored his question. “Which timeline?” 

“The second.” 

“And in the first?” 

Akira sighed. “I don’t think my pathetic love life really matters,” he began, but Akechi cut him off again. 

“You’re right— your pathetic love life _doesn’t_ matter,” he said as he leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking like a warning under him. “I’d very much rather be, oh, ripping my nails off with _pliers_ rather than listening to you prattle on about your conquests—” 

“They’re not _conquests_ —” 

Akechi didn’t even deign him with a smirk or quirk of an eyebrow. “— but it’s information regarding potential changes in the timeline. Any difference, no matter how insignificant and pointless, serves a purpose.” 

Akira knew that, but the thought of sharing what little was different between the first three timelines only made Akira feel immeasurable _guilt_. He’d had quite literally _years_ to figure out differences in the timeline and had only ended up changing who he dated. 

Akechi’d been there for only two months and had already figured out more than Akira ever had. Hell, he’d even started taking on requests by himself, something Akira hadn’t really even thought about doing. 

All of this time and Akira had squandered it. 

Akechi’s expectant stare, mouth pursed and eyes slowly blinking while the stared for so much as a slip in Akira’s mask, was what finally broke him.

“Fine. If you’re so tied up about it— in the first timeline, there was no one. I was a little busy killing _God_.” 

“And in your last timeline?” 

Akira swallowed and glanced away, though he could feel Akechi’s eyes boring holes into him. “Can we just say I was going through an existential crisis in the third timeline and leave it at that?” 

“What, Kurusu— did you bed _all_ of your female confidants?” 

“And Yusuke.” 

Akechi stared at him, mouth gaping open, and for a second he could all but see the gears turning behind Akechi’s eyes before he finally said, “You jest.” 

Akira only stared back. 

“I… didn’t need to know that.” 

Akira shrugged. “You _asked_.” 

It was nice— catching Akechi off guard. It’d always been something exceedingly difficult to do, but every time Akira managed it, it felt like he’d somehow won a big prize. 

_Even if it means embarrassing myself to get it._

His words clung in the air, cloying and thick, before Akechi finally opened his mouth. He seemed to take great care in each word, though why this Akechi would be so considerate, Akira didn’t have a clue. “I believe… your dalliances are doubtful to have caused this.” 

“Dalliances? What are you— an old lady?” 

Akechi’s nostrils flared. “Fine,” he replied, voice sharp. “You _fucking_ your way through Tokyo. Better?” 

“Not really.” 

“As I was _saying_ , your whoring is unlikely to have done anything but cause yourself trouble, particularly since you said your first timeline was spent alone.” 

Akira winced. “Way to make a guy feel loved.” Akira rubbed at his chest, once, before letting his hands fall at his side again. “So. You took care of the assassin.”

Akechi hummed. 

“Anything else?” 

“Trivial requests that I vaguely remembered,” Akechi said with a slight wave. “Nothing particularly challenging for me, though I remember them giving you quite a bit of grief.” There it was— that sense of superiority Akechi wore like a cape. 

“You’ve always been able to handle yourself.” 

“One assassin is hardly anything to worry about.” Akechi nodded his head, and then added, “and a few others of note. I thought about entering his Palace—” _Shido’s Palace_ , Akira thought as his chest went tight at the mere thought of Akechi being in there _alone_. “ —but for reasons I’ve yet to ascertain it seems impossible. I’ve been able to manage a few others with no difficulty, but the ones involving the Phantom Thieves seem to be…” 

“Locked? Yeah.” Then, thinking of Akechi's words, Akira asked, “You’ve been going into other Palaces?”

Akechi adjusted in the chair casually, _too_ casually, and Akira couldn’t help the chill that went up his spine. 

“The collective involved with Shido’s bid for Prime Minister,” Akechi said, parsing his words carefully as he pulled his foot from his knee, bracing both feet on the ground. “I’m sure that they’re involved in far more nefarious deeds, though it seems that Shido is, at his essence, only one piece of the conspiracy.”

A thought crossed his mind at that moment, the words spilling out before he even had a chance to think them through. 

“The men in the black cars.” 

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Akechi deadpanned, but Akira caught his clenched jaw through the mouth of his mask.

Akira looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck before sneaking a glance back at Akechi. If anything, he looked more tight than before. “After being let out of juvie, men in black suits started tailing me wherever I went. I figured they worked for the police, but…” 

“Unlikely.” 

Of course— it had never been _just_ Shido. There’d been people working with him, people who’d believed in him, people who had helped him rise to power just like Akechi had done once upon a time. 

“Do you think it has to do with cognitive psience research?” 

Akechi’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’ve become so pathetic that you need _me_ to hold your hand and fill in the blanks for you.” 

Akira didn’t, but at the same time… he wanted to hear what Akechi had to say. He’d been involved with cognitive psience from the beginning, had gotten his first persona when he was only 14, and… 

Teenage test subjects were always valuable in the medical research industry, afterall. 

Except this Akechi’d rather eat his own liver than tell Akira anything. It’d been nearly impossible for Akira to get at all in the last timeline, pulled through tears and screams, but Akira had seen the scars and heard the nightmares. 

For a moment, just a glimmer of a moment, Akira thought about telling Akechi to drop the act. He’d seen him at his worst, when he was nothing but a mess of spittle and snot and fury that ran hot like blood. He’d seen him when the mask was shattered, when he wasn’t the Detective Prince or the Black Mask or even just _Akechi_. 

He’d seen through the shards, had seen _Goro_ , and it was impossible for Akira to go back to a time where he _hadn’t_.

_Even if he doesn’t know it._

Akira felt the scowl pull over his mouth as he turned away, staring out toward the ticket gate. 

“Nope.” The word popped from his mouth. “Crystal clear.” 

“Then it would be best for us to go at that angle— the collective, whether or not they are the root cause of our…” Akechi thought for a moment, “predicament.” 

“I would have gone with ’ _clusterfuck_ ’.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Akechi waved a hand through the air, and for the second time Akira caught the sight of Akechi’s bare hand, shattered diamonds glinting in the dark light. 

Catching where Akira’s eyes were set, Akechi twisted his fingers into a fist, finger by finger, before stretching them out as wide as they could go. “Came as quite a surprise to me, too. When I woke, I was in my detective’s uniform but was missing one glove. I haven’t been able to summon it into the cognitive world since. Would you know why?” 

Akira shook his head, adjusting the bag next to him. 

“Hm. Did you by chance have my glove on your person when you returned?” 

Akira thought about the soft leather that he’d kept in his pocket every damn day after Akechi’d thrown it at him, a promise for a duel that would never happen— the same glove that was tucked inside his bag, hidden away from the world. 

It wasn’t just Goro Akechi’s glove anymore. 

“Sorry,” Akira replied, though what he was apologizing for Akechi certainly didn’t need to know.

They sat at the entrance of Mementos until the wheezing of the walls grew too much for Akira to bear, and he finally asked the question that’d been on his mind from the moment Akechi had met him in front of the bakery. 

Just as he opened his mouth, Akechi finally spoke up. His voice wasn’t soft, not in the way his perfect detective prince mask had once been, but there was something there that slipped through the cracks. It was a voice that Akira had heard so rarely through the timelines that he hoarded it in his heart, locking it away where no one else could see it. 

Where no one else could _steal_ it.

“Why do you think things are different this time?”

Akira looked away.

 ** _You_**.

“I don’t know.” 

* * *

It didn’t take much to convince Akechi to follow him into Mementos in order to find Jose. Joker may not have been able to summon any of his Personas, but considering the years of target practice he’d gotten with his gun _Akira_ was just as capable of killing shadows on the Path of Qimranut and Aiyatsubus.

If he couldn’t, well… the shadows _deserved_ to waste him. 

The shadows seemed to realize that they weren’t the hunters today, and after picking off a few straggling Obariyon and Kodama and one particularly annoying Succubus who’d batted her eyelashes until Akechi’d blown its head off with Ancient Day, the world had gone silent except for Mementos’ quivering breathing, their footsteps, and the sound of far-off trains. 

Akira kept his ears open for the sound of the Reaper, but it was rare for the Reaper to come close to the surface. He’d figured out a pattern back in the second timeline— as long as they kept moving, the Reaper was more than happy to leave them the hell alone. 

_Or when I came here alone,_ Akira thought, mind wandering back to the last loop, where after Shido’s ark he’d wandered for what seemed like days only to find himself in front of the Path of Iweleth, his body sore and the doors stubbornly closed. He’d remembered trying to rip the doors open with his bare hands only for it to stay so very still.

The Reaper hadn’t bothered to show up then, either, almost as though it were mocking his pain. It wouldn’t give him the sweet oblivion he craved, and so Akira has forced himself back to the surface empty-handed.

“Why exactly do you want to see that child?” Akechi asked, gaining only a half-hearted shrug in response. “It’s not as though he remembers.” 

“Did you ask him?”

Akechi holstered his gun and with a frown. “No, I just wandered through Tokyo’s distorted manifestation for the last two months, minding my own business.” 

“So you _did_ ask him.” 

Akechi tched and sauntered forward, the cape on his back blowing in the nonexistent wind. “Of course I did.” 

“And?” 

“As I said— he doesn’t remember.” 

Still, Akira had the other crystal of sorrow, and having an extra ring would have been helpful, even if Akira didn’t want to wear it. Futaba would have said he was nerfing himself, but… 

Ryuji and Ann probably wouldn’t mind wearing them, once things had calmed down. Both of their personalities were likely to be less affected by the ring of sorrow than _other_ people. Still, he'd avoided giving any of the rings to his friends, the other accessories being just as good without the negative effects. And that was even _if_ the ring actually affected them. He'd never wanted to really give it a try.

 _Or I can just suck it up and put it on,_ Akira thought as Akechi turned a corner, Jose’s cheerful star balloons and sky-blue car coming into sharp contrast against the midnight blue walls. 

“Oh, Mister Candy Cane! You brought a friend? And did you remember my flowers?” 

Akira looked at Jose, then back to Akechi— 

“Mister Candy Cane.”

“Not another word,” Akechi snapped back, mouth barely moving. 

Akira snorted and bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Of course not, Mister Candy Cane.” 

If looks could kill… then again, if being humiliated by a little boy with a weird bowl-cut could kill, well… 

Jose tilted his head to the side when he looked at Akira, brows furrowing and mouth drawing down into a small frown. There was something in his eyes, something that Akira had never really understood, but it felt like staring into the abyss of humanity, only for it to smile back. 

“So, no flowers today?” 

“Unfortunately not,” Akechi replied shortly. “I assure you that next time I’ll bring more.” 

That, at least, made Jose smile. “Thank you. I’m really looking forward to drinking more of your flower juice. It always feels… nice.” Jose turned his smile on Akira, next. It didn’t look like the smile Akira was used to; in a way it looked almost sad. “You have something for me, don’t you?”

Akira side-eyed Akechi, who’d turned to him with a hint of curiosty, before he looked back at Jose. 

“Uh. Yeah. How’d you know?” 

Jose blinked, long and so very _slow_ , before he shrugged his shoulder. “I don’t know!” he chirped. “Just a feeling, I guess. But that’s kinda normal for me. Do you ever get the feeling like there’s something you should know but you can’t remember, Mister?” 

It was more that everyone around him should have known but kept forgetting, but… that was the story of his life, wasn’t it?

“Something like that,” Akira said as he reached into his bag, his fingers rustling through the contents until he felt the ever-familiar coldness from the crystal of sorrow. He pulled it from his bag, handing it over to Jose. 

Jose stuck his tongue out from the corner of his lips as he turned the crystal over in his hands, before his eyebrows seemed to disappear into his hair when he shouted, “Oh! I know what to do!” and jumped toward the tower of boxes in the back of his car. “Just— gimme a second, Mister!

While Jose busied himself with rustling through, throwing things over his head, Akira glanced at Akechi.

“Do you remember anything about Will Seeds?”

“Vaguely.” 

It seemed like a lot of Akechi’s memories, particularly of things from their second timeline, were pretty vague. “You’ve probably picked up a few Will Seeds of your own if you’ve been going through Palaces.” 

Akechi gave a stiff nod. “A few, though nothing very powerful.” 

“Could be that you just don’t know what to do with them,” Akira joked. “Maybe you just need someone to teach you how.” 

He couldn’t stop himself from snorting when Akechi only _glared_. 

“I’ve been going through Palaces for much longer than you have. If anything, _I_ should be the one teaching _you_.” 

Akira batted his eyelashes, clasping his hands in front of him. “Oh, Akechi- _senpai_ ,” he declared, “won’t you teach me all about these big, scary Palaces?” Sure, the Will Seeds had only started showing up in the second timeline, but Akechi had always been a quick learner.

“No.” 

Akira clicked his tongue, dropping his hands. “And here I thought Akechi-senpai _cared_.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Joker.” 

Had it been another time, another _Akechi_ , Akira would have heard something else in that voice, but there was still just a touch of humor, though it did nothing to edge out the annoyance. 

Yet the way they bickered felt familiar, and Akira could feel his heart hammer in his chest when he quipped back. It was easy, comforting, like coming back to Mementos had been. 

It faded away when Jose came back, holding out the ring of sorrow with open hands. 

“Here you go, Mister! It should help you a lot. It’s _really_ strong.” 

Akira tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Thanks, Jose.” He took the ring in one hand, trying to not look at the shattered kaleidoscope of diamonds inside the crystal.

Jose frowned. “You’re not gunna wear it?” 

“Yes, Joker,” Akechi asked, voice far too curious and _close_ for Akira to feel comfortable. “You’re not going to wear it?” 

Akira looked down at the ring and, with his most debonair smile, held his hand out for Akechi. 

“You can have it, if you want. I’ve got other accessories.” 

Akechi only replied by showing his own hand. “I’ve got my own.” 

Akira glanced at Jose again, who had begun to worry his bottom lip with his teeth. 

“Yeah,” he said after a moment as he slid the ring onto his hand, feeling despair like a vice around his finger, permeating up his arm and into his chest. “You’re right.”

* * *

There was something hauntingly beautiful about rain at night. 

When he’d been living in Inaba, the world passing before his eyes before he even had the chance to blink, there’d been a solace when the pitter-patter splashed against Akira’s window. It was like the sky itself wanted to wash away some of the ugliness of the day, a way of purifying the world for the coming dawn.

When he’d first come to Tokyo, listening to the rain against the flimsy wooden roof was like listening to a song he’d heard time and time again, a comforting rhythm that whisked him off to the sweet embrace of sleep. It soothed his aching soul, reminded him of times long gone, times that would never come again. 

The rain was always more comforting than the snow. 

His mother, before she’d died, had told him that the god Kuraokami had been born in blood and pain. The goddess Izanami had withered and died in childbirth, her lover Izanagi killing their child in his anguish. She had birthed a god of fire and with it brought only destruction, and so his blood brought the rain and snow to quell the burning ache of loneliness and death. 

She had always told him that had he taken her name like she originally wanted— Amamiya— Akira’s name would have been the daybreak on a rainy palace, a light in the darkest of places. 

_“Or I would have named you after a water lily, able to survive even the harshest flood. But lilies don’t survive the winter,”_ she had explained as she brushed his tears away with her thumb. _“Don’t… don’t let his coldness hurt you. Don’t let him take away that fire burning inside. And… don’t forget that you are **my** son.” _

She’d left the world on a bitterly cold January morning, just before the sun rose as the rain turned to snow. He’d held her hand until his father and his _wife_ arrived to collect his father’s deepest shame, until his mother’s skin had gone pale and cold, until his tears dried and there was nothing but snow left inside.

She’d told him to burn, but all he could do was let his heart turn to ice.

Maybe it was fate, then, that every February 2nd would always end in snow. It was sharp like daggers against his skin, enough to make Akira’s teeth chatter and fingers ache. Even in the first timeline, before Maruki and fantasy became reality, Akira remembered staring through the bars on his window as the rain against his window, a comforting melody, softened and grew dull.

Akira could close his eyes even now and see the snowflakes dotting Akechi’s hair when he walked into Leblanc that fateful evening. It looked the same as it had on Christmas Eve at the Shibuya scramble, when for just a brief moment Akira thought he’d won, that he’d somehow fixed things, before everything went to hell. 

But the snow was like an omen, one that stuck to Akira like a cancer ripping him open to show just how ugly he was on the inside— how ugly everything was on the inside. 

But the rain? 

Akira closed his eyes as he laid on his futon, feeling the ever-familiar bite of the crates below him when he twisted to his side. Over the cycles, Akira had learned the whorls in the wood, the cracks in the crumbling paint, the cobwebs that made their home in every crevice of Leblanc’s attic.

Before, when things had been new and so very different, the room may as well have had bars on the windows. It had taken until Morgana came home with him that fateful afternoon, that comforting weight against his chest while he slept, for Akira to get even a single night of peaceful sleep on the too-small bed. 

Sometime in the third timeline he’d paid for an actual bed, one with a spring mattress and a fluffy topper, but he’d ended up giving it to Yusuke because it just didn’t _feel_ right. It didn’t matter that he woke up with pins and needles and sometimes his back cracked when he walked. What was more important was that it was familiar. 

_”I’d say the only reason you keep this damn thing is some form of masochism.”_

Akira rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, almost _willing_ it to fall down and crack him in his skull. If he died— 

_I’d probably wake up on the train. Again._

In the other timelines, Akira had never actually _died_. He’d come close more times than he could count, emerging from battles with Gods and shadows with his insides on the outside and Morgana’s spells the only thing knitting him back together, but he still _lived_. In the last two timelines he thought about just letting Akechi win because why the hell not, but he’d never actually _done_ it. 

Akira reached up and twisted his pillow around, trying to find a position that didn’t leave a crick in his neck, but like many other things he knew it was hopeless. 

Letting out a groan, Akira flipped himself on his stomach and shoved his head into his pillow. This was why he didn’t wear the ring of sorrow. Sure, it was strong— stronger than anything Akira had by a mile, but the effects weren’t _worth_ it. 

Sighing, Akira pulled the ring off his finger and set it on the windowsill, immediately feeling the effects trickle off him like the rain on the glass. 

It felt… _wrong_ to take it off. 

In the dull light from the nearby streetlamp, the ring looked almost beautiful. Harmless, really. Most of the Palace rings looked harmless at first glance, only showing their truth when the wearer let themselves feel what was lurking inside. 

Lust. Vanity. Gluttony. Wrath. Greed. Envy. Pride. 

Sorrow, somehow, was the most insidious of all.

 _Though lust definitely packed a mean punch,_ Akira thought as he rubbed his jaw, almost able to feel the ache of many, _many_ fists dying to _literally_ get a piece of him. 

Still, if Akechi caught him wandering around without it on, there’d be questions. Maybe there wasn’t really an effect on the wearer; maybe it was just Akira’s overactive imagination sucker-punching him just because it could. Akechi didn’t seem bothered by this in any way, so it was always possible that it was all in Akira’s head.

To be fair, there were a lot of things only in Akira’s head. 

Groaning, Akira pulled himself out of bed and padded across the attic, careful not to trip over the books and cleaning supplies, though he did get a mouth full of cob-web for his effort. He grabbed hold of the strap of his schoolbag, tugging it back toward his bed. How hadn’t he realized just how heavy all that _crap_ really was? 

Akira rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand as he hoisted the bag onto his bed, hearing a _thunk_ that reverberated through the room. He’d need to get a box for sorting through all of the shit he had so he could stash it under his bed if Sojiro came snooping, like he had in the last timeline when Akira had been stupid and forgot to put his knife away. He’d caught holy hell for that, and he definitely didn’t want a repeat. 

Akira glanced around the room before his eyes came across an old shoebox sitting one top of the pile of trash. It was dirty, the side slightly torn and the box yellowed from disuse, but it’d work. 

It didn’t take long for Akira to split his stash into different piles: crap to keep, crap to sell off to Iwai that he jammed back into his bag, and crap he’d see if he could pawn off to Tanaka. That pile was considerably smaller—the interlocking rings of lust, a few of the mirrors that distorted his face until all he could see was red, and one particularly questionable crystal skull that gave Akira the heebie-jeebies when he looked at it. He hid those in one of the crates under his bed.

The glove... the glove he slid into the front pocket of his bag, taking care to fold the thumb in so it wouldn't crease. It was stupid; it wasn't like he was going to give it back, but it made Akira smile. That had to count for something, didn't it? His other friend's gifts he carefully placed in the shoebox, letting his fingertips trace over the little pieces of themselves they'd shared with Akira through that year.

Akira tossed the other ring of sorrow on his desk— out of sight, out of mind— and he took one of the extra chain necklaces and slipped the newer ring onto it, hanging it off his shelf. 

A faint buzzing caught Akira’s attention, and he rubbed at his face one more time before grabbing his phone, clicking through to his messages.

**11:54 PM Goro Akechi  
** _I’ve compiled and attached a document in regards to the Palaces I’ve entered since my arrival. Let me know if you see any familiar names._

Akira clicked on the attachment, staring at Akechi’s notes for a second before flipping back to their chat. 

**11:55PM Akira Kurusu  
** _did you put your PT activities into an **excel** spreadsheet? _

**11:56PM Goro Akechi**   
_For your convenience, not mine. It’s better to keep meticulous notes than to let something fall by the wayside._

**11:57PM Goro Akechi  
** _I’ve also added an additional layer of encryption to keep this from prying eyes. If nothing else it should let us know if anyone attempts to look through our messages. It’d be best to not use language you don’t want others to see._

Futaba. Right. She already had the cafe bugged. In his previous loops, Akira had figured out where most of them were hidden, but any time he’d asked Futaba if he’d found them all she’d do her evil little laugh, which Akira was pretty sure was a resounding _no_.

**11:59PM Akira Kurusu  
** _you even color-coded it_

 **12:01AM Goro Akechi**   
_I’ll see you tomorrow. Go over the document and let me know if anything comes to mind. You should go to sleep— we have a busy day tomorrow._

**12:04AM Akira Kurusu**   
_you say that like you think Sojiro’s going to let me go anywhere but school and back_

**12:05AM Goro Akechi  
** _We’ll see about that. Goodnight._

Akira tossed his phone back on his bed. 

He didn’t _want_ to go to bed, because the moment he closed his eyes he’d be back in the Velvet room with the twins and the false Igor, and the thought of having them poke and prod and mock him made him want to gag. The first time had been awful, but once he’d learned the truth, being in that room only made him nauseous. 

Still, there was no point in putting it off— the longer he waited the less _actual_ sleep he’d get. 

Glancing one more time out the window of his prison, Akira let himself listen to the sweet tap of rain as he fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Sojiro drove him to the school in silence. It wasn’t even a comfortable silence, as what’d grown between them over coffee lessons and talks about the shittiness of humanity. There’d been an easy comradeship that’d sprouted from their awkward, unsure beginnings. In a lot of ways, Sojiro had been more of a father to him than anyone else in his life. It wasn't saying much, especially considering the fact that Akira only existed because his father screwed his secretary, but to Akira... it meant a lot.

In some ways, it didn’t come to Akira as a surprise when he’d found out in the second timeline that Sojiro had known his mother in university. They were never particularly close after graduation, but when things had gone sour for him in Inaba, an old friend had let Sojiro know. 

Akira liked to think that Sojiro had been checking up on him through the years, even if he’d never said a word to Akira about it. More than once he'd wanted to ask Sojiro what she'd been like when she was younger, before obligation and requirements had tied her down, before the cancer took her. He wondered, idly, what life would have been like if Sojiro had taken him when she died, instead of getting shipped off to live with his distant father and spiteful stepmother.

It… it was nice to dream. 

But none of that had happened, and the only thing Sojiro knew about Akira was his penchant for getting himself into trouble and being a pain in the ass. 

“Just keep your nose clean and get through the year, then you can go home and we can both forget this ever happened.” 

Ha. As if.

It was no different than all the times before. There’d been _no way_ Akira was going to be able to keep his nose clean, even if he wanted to. He didn't even have the choice to try.

There was something, though. It was tickling at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn't quite scratch, and Akira tried to adjust himself without making a scene. He’d say there was a sense of deja vu, but he was already too many time loops in to feel anything but unease in his guts. Akira reached up, almost reflexively, for the ring of sorrow around his throat. 

It was cold against his hand, but... this was different. This was... _wrong._

Still, standing in Principal Kobayakawa’s office, staring at the gold-embossed nameplate and patently ignoring the maid flyer Kawakami accidentally slipped under his school ID, Akira felt a sudden chill up the back of his spine when he heard a light knock at the door. 

Wait.

That’d never happened before. 

“Principal Kobayakawa, thank you for inviting m— _Akira-kun_?” 

“Akira-kun?” 

“You know each other?” 

“I didn’t know you went to Shujin, kid.” 

Akira’s heart jumped into his throat as he slowly turned toward the door. The blood rushing through his ears was like a tidal wave, and it only _intensified_ as his eyes finally traced over the form of Goro Akechi standing poised as only he could be in his so-familiar gray jacket, though his perfectly-tailored black slacks were swapped out for black and red plaid— 

No.

 _No_.

At that, Goro Akechi gave an award-winning gasp as he lifted his ungloved hand to his mouth to cover his smirk.

“Oh, Akira-kun, I'm so surprised to see you here today! I was hoping to let you know I'd transferred to Shujin for my final year before school started tomorrow, but it must have slipped my mind!”

But all Akira could do was stare at Akechi, taking in his half-uniform and that fucking _smirk_ , before blurting out a single sentence.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your theories on what exactly is going on. I won't tell you if you're right or wrong. :3
> 
> And just so you all know, this story isn't just going to be a rehashing of the game. I don't have the time or energy to write a novelization of what actually happened. Things are gunna be massively changing next chapter as it is, so you don't need to worry about that.


	3. Chapter 3

“You did that on purpose.” 

“Obviously.”

Akira stared at Akechi, at the way he merely smiled as he brushed Akira’s hand off the lapels of his jacket, taking great care to adjust his trademark tie. He didn’t look half as ruffled as he should have, but that was something Akechi always seemed to be able to do. 

Just like he had when he walked into Kobayakawa’s office.

The lie Akechi had come up with rolled in the back of Akira’s throat, and when he finally repeated it out loud it came out almost as a squawk.

“Childhood friends. You’ve had two months of worming your way into this timeline—into _my life_ —and the best you could figure out was childhood friends?”

Akechi merely shrugged. “How did you expect me to explain our relationship? Detective and fanboy stalker? Penpals?” Then, in the same pleasant tone used for telling people about the weather, Akechi added, “Passionate lovers torn apart by your criminal record?”

Akira thought about pushing Akechi backward, sending him careening into the half-broken vending machine in Shujin’s courtyard that he always forgot would steal his coins. He’d push Akechi hard, hard enough to topple the thing over. 

The thoughts of seeing the perfect Detective Prince get charged with destruction of property were enough to make Akira almost smile.

Almost. 

_Except, with my luck, they’d still charge me for it,_ Akira thought bitterly as he stared at Akechi, whose only response was to readjust his tie. 

“So, you believe passionate lovers would have been a better answer?” 

Akira let out a low, suffering sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t say that. Just— have you ever even _been_ to Inaba? If anyone goes looking, it won’t take much to find out you’re lyi—” 

“My mother used to bring me to Inaba.” Akira stared, mouth falling open, before Akechi continued, “The mental institution she frequented was just outside the city.” 

“Oh.” 

Akechi looked decidedly blank in his response, looking at Akira as though he were a particularly disgusting bug he wanted to crush under those perfectly-polished dress shoes of his.

“I assure you, if Sojiro suddenly becomes inclined to look into the past of his favorite customer and the delinquent terror living above his shop, nothing would seem out of sorts. And the school—well, they’re even easier to handle.”

Akechi had a way of saying things with such blandness that most wouldn’t notice the tremor in his voice, the strain against his vocal chords that reminded Akira of the first note of a wail. It was the child in him, the little boy who believed in super heroes and saviors.

Akechi had been hopeful— once.

“I’m sorry.” 

Akechi, though, only managed a scorned, “What do _you_ have to apologize for?” before _he_ pushed Akira into the vending machine. It didn’t hurt, but did make a Manta pop out and nudge the back of Akira’s leg. 

Instead of answering, Akira reached down for the soda bottle. “Are you going to arrest me if I take this?” 

Akechi only waved his ungloved hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other as he took a seat on one of the nearby benches. There was something about the way he looked, something that reminded Akira of the last timeline, when he and Akechi sat across from one another in one of Maruki’s safe rooms. They didn’t say anything then, because everything that needed to be said was already said, and Akira didn’t trust his mouth not to say something stupid.

Manta never particularly tasted great, but this one tasted particularly sweet— not 1500 yen sweet, but… beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Akira choked down half the bottle before finally saying something. “I still can’t believe you weaseled your way into Boss’s good graces.” 

Akechi snorted. “You say it like it’s hard.” 

It’d taken months and many, many cups of coffee to get Sojiro to like him in the first timeline— in fact, the only thing that really ended up bringing him around was Akira’s friendship with Futaba. It’d become easier in the others, mostly because he spent the first several weeks of every new timeline ingratiating himself into Leblanc like he always belonged there, never complaining and always knowing the right thing to say. 

But for Akechi? All he had to do was waltz into the cafe a couple times over a few months and suddenly he was Boss’s favorite person? 

How was _that_ fair?

“—though, I guess for attic trash, it would pose quite a challenge.” 

Akira didn’t reply, instead capping his Manta and throwing it at Akechi, who caught it deftly with a smirk.

“Either way,” Akechi continued, tossing the drink back at Akira with enough force to make his hand sting when he caught it, “consider this an advantage. If Sojiro trusts me, he’ll be more inclined to allow you out of that pigsty you call home.” 

“Leblanc isn’t a pigsty,” Akira replied, but the reminder that he had a literal junk pile sitting in the middle of his floor right at that moment made him take pause. “And you joining Shujin? What does that do?”

_Other than piss me off._

Akechi gave a languid shrug. “Less attention you’ll bring to yourself from students and faculty. Who is going to think one of my dearest _friends_ is the leader of the elusive Phantom Thieves? And, if anything, that rabble you call friends may be a little more careful.”

“They’re not—” 

“Yes, yes, whatever you say,” Akechi dismissively replied. “All that matters is that I’ve given you an excellent alibi. No one will think of involving you in Phantom Thieves business.” 

“I—” Akira’s breath caught in his throat when Akechi’s words hit him like a train. “You’re not going to let me be a Phantom Thief.” 

The moments ticked by before Akechi slowly clapped. “So you are catching on.” 

No. Out of every bad thing that had happened, after every trial and tribulation, after all of the laughs and tears and even punches, what Goro Akechi was suggesting was impossible. 

In all the timelines, through all the absolute hell Akira had been through, his friends had been the one thing that kept him from falling apart. Knowing that they needed him, that he had to protect them, that he was the glue that held them all together— he didn’t just _want_ them.

No.

Akira _needed_ them.

And they needed _him_.

“Don’t look so shocked, Kurusu. This is more than the petty games you and your friends played. I thought you of all people would understand what’s at stake here. There’s clearly something much, much bigger at play—” 

“I’m not giving up my friends.” Akira felt the fury below him, the same cold hatred that he’d had when he’d first accepted Arsene into his heart, when he’d been chained like a dog in the interrogation room, when Yaldabaoth offered him a choice between reality and his own distortion. It was the feeling that had roiled in his gut when he’d throw the calling card at Maruki, the paper feeling like razorblades between his fingers. 

“They’re the only reason I awoke Arsene. I can’t do this without them.” 

Akechi tched. “We’ll go into Mementos and I’ll shoot at you until you grow a spine.” 

“That won’t work.” 

“We won’t know until we try.” 

Akira bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron. 

If Akechi noticed, he didn’t show it. “I’m not saying you can’t be friendly with them, but under no circumstances can you become a Phantom Thief. We have far too much work to— Kurusu, _do not walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”_

“Fuck you.” Akira picked up his speed, ignoring Akechi who had gotten to his feet to follow him. 

He needed to find Sojiro and get as far away from the school— from Akechi— as humanly possible. If he didn’t, he was going to… going to… 

Akira managed to get into the classroom building, so close and yet so far from the entrance where Sojiro said he’d meet him once he’d finished filing the paperwork with Kobayakawa and Kawakami, before Akechi grabbed hold of his arm.

This time, Akechi was the one who hit the vending machines.

“Oh, so we’re going to be _violent_ now, hmm?” Akechi sneered, voice husky and low. “Think you can win?” 

“I already _have_.” 

Akira thought about grabbing hold of Akechi’s neck and squeezing, because one of the only things on the planet that could make Akira’s entire being twist up like this was Goro _fucking_ Akechi using that tone with him. Instead, Akira slammed his hand into the vending machine, effectively trapping Akechi between the machine and him. 

“You’re going to listen to me very, _very_ carefully,” Akira said, voice clipped and controlled, nothing like the feelings bubbling inside. This wasn’t the Akechi he knew. This Akechi didn’t _get it_. “I’m meeting Ryuji tomorrow and we’re going into Kamoshida’s Palace. I’m going to get my Persona. I’m going to find Morgana. That’s it. This isn’t up for debate. You try to get between me and my friends, and I will _destroy_ you.” 

“You wouldn’t.” Akechi’s words were laced with conviction and contempt, thick like blood. “I’m the only person you can rely on.” 

“I can rely on my friends,” Akira spat back, lips trembling.

Akechi snorted. “And do your pathetic little timeline all over again? Just so we can start this miserable year all over again? I think not.” Akechi straightened his back and looked down at Akira. “We’re doing it _my_ way, and _I_ say that we forgo the route we already know leads to failure.”

He’d always known that Akechi was taller than him, but for the first time Akira felt so very small in comparison. Even with him being the one who had Akechi’s back up against the vending machine, the one with all the power, he was weak and pitiful because Akechi was _looking down at him_ and Akira knew Akechi was right.

“I understand that you think friendship and _bonds_ are important," he mocked, "but we have bigger matters to deal with. The collective, to start— it runs far deeper than just Shido.” 

Yeah, that was true. Ever since Akechi had mentioned it, the memories of the other timelines and the men who’d followed him after his release from juvie had become almost impossible to ignore. Akira was sure that there was something going on there, but that couldn’t be what locked them in a loop. Except— 

Akira sighed. “Do you remember the names of the other researchers from Wakaba Isshiki’s program? Maybe they’ve done some kind of research into this— like they did with Loki.” 

Akira could see something in Akechi’s eyes, and immediately he regretted his words.

“What did you say.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Akira’s mouth went dry. Of course, _this_ Akechi hadn’t told him about what had happened in the research lab or in Wakaba Isshiki’s Palace. They’d never gotten that close in the timeline Akechi remembered, and it wasn’t exactly easy banter between two rivals. 

No— talking about the experiments wasn’t casual conversation at all. 

“How much did I tell you?” Akechi’s words felt like ice in Akira’s ears, but his face— he’d lost his tell-tale smirk and his eyes were blank. 

Shit. 

“Just that it happened.”

Akechi’s lips quivered as he grabbed hold of Akira’s necklace. “Why would I ever tell _**you**_ something like that?” Had this been another time, Akira would have just seen the anger, but he’d spent too much time with Akechi by now not to notice the panic and _fear_. The damage from what Wakaba’s research had done to Akechi wasn’t something he’d ever forgotten. 

It wasn’t something he could forget. 

“Listen to me very, very carefully, Kurusu. I do not care what you _think_ you know about me— do not bring that up again. Are we clear?”

“Goro—” 

Goro twisted his hand around the necklace, the metal biting into Akira’s neck. He winced, but that only made Akechi’s grip tighten. “This is a yes or no question. I don’t care about your _feelings_.” He was so close Akira could feel Akechi’s breath against his lips and could see the flecks of red in his eyes. 

Just as Akira opened his mouth— to say what he wasn’t quite sure, a voice echoed through the hall. 

“Kid, we’ve got to g— oh.” 

Akira snapped his head to the side only to see Sojiro standing not three feet away, staring at Akira and Akechi, his eyes wide and his mouth formed into a perfect circle. 

It reminded Akira, vaguely, of the time Sojiro had caught him and Futaba making out in his room. Except this was much, much less murderous and nothing like that because he wasn’t—they weren’t— 

_Fuck_.

Akira immediately pulled his arm back and moved to back up, but Akechi was slower in letting go of his necklace. It only ended up making Akira choke, which somehow made everything so much _worse_.

Fuck. 

“I— uh,” Akira said through a cough as he scrambled away from Akechi, whose face had gone from fury to his placid Detective Prince mask in the blink of an eye. “I— we— it’s not—” 

Sojiro raised one hand in front of him, stopping Akira dead in his tracks. “No. Just— no.” Then, with far more composure (which still wasn’t much) he turned to Akechi. For a moment he just stared at the two before finally asking, “Do you think you can bring him back to Leblanc when you’re… done?”

Akechi didn’t miss a beat. 

“Of course, Boss.” 

Akira gaped. What the ever-loving _fuck_ was Akechi doing?

“But this isn’t wha—we’re not—” Akira started, but the look from Boss seemed to only make it worse. 

Without another word (though it certainly looked like Sojiro had more to say) the man tipped his head to Akechi and left.

Fuck.

No. 

The mask disappeared the moment Sojiro was out of sight, and the reminder of research and Phantom Thieves and _anger_ filtered through Akira like a cold sweat. 

Akira needed to get away from Akechi. He needed to go find Sojiro before he drove off. He needed— ne needed a fucking hole in his head, because at least then he could figure out how to start the timeline and _not_ have this happen.

Except Akechi would remember and they’d end up stuck in the same situation again and again, because God was dead and Akira Kurusu was fucking _cursed_ because he’d been the one to kill it.

“I— I can’t. I can’t do it, Akechi,” Akira whispered, hearing the weakness in his own voice. 

Akechi only glowered. “Well, you better figure out _how_.”

* * *

The drive home was dead silent. Before, Sojiro had talked to him about the accidents on the radio and Kasumi’s tragic death, but this time… 

Not a peep. And really, it was better that way. 

He was lucky he’d even managed to get a ride back, though the blank look Sojiro had shot him when he slid into the car was one that made his skin crawl. Akira knew it was nothing personal or nefarious— Sojiro had taken his little stint with Yusuke back in the third timeline with a laugh and a quick, “you’re gunna get yourself killed, kid,” — but Akira could understand where Sojiro’s mind was going every time he caught the other man side-eyeing him at red lights or stop signs.

By the time Sojiro rolled his car into Yongen-Jaya, Akira was convinced that if he didn’t have nerves of steel he would have melted into Sojiro’s leather seats. 

Akira stared at Sojiro’s house, at the drawn curtains for Futaba’s room, before finally shattering the silence. 

“It wasn’t what it looked like.” 

“Okay, kid.” 

Sojiro used the same tone that he’d used with Futaba when she was telling him she’d just die if she didn’t get a new game or if he didn’t give her an extra-large helping of curry. He’d used that same tone with Akira when Akira’d told him that no, he wasn’t getting into trouble, and yes, everything was absolutely and totally fine. 

Sojiro and his goddamn dad radar that was, very obviously, broken. 

“We were fighting.” 

“Fighting’s changed a lot since my day.” 

Akira grinded his teeth together. It didn’t matter what he said, because once Sojiro had something in his head it was nearly impossible to change his mind. 

This timeline was absolutely, positively, the worst one— by a mile. 

But then Sojiro had to open his mouth and say, “Well, having a friend like that kid’ll do you good. I should’ve realized when he kept telling me about how he was waiting for his _friend_ to come to Tokyo that he meant you.” 

“I— what?” Akira croaked. 

Akechi had been talking to Sojiro about him?

That, at least, got a laugh out of Sojiro. “I’m guessing you told him where you’d be staying and he looked me up?” 

Akira shook his head numbly. “No.” 

“Huh. Guess he used those detective skills of his,” Sojiro said with a shrug as he turned off the engine and climbed out of the car. “Though why someone like him cares about a pain in the ass like you is something I’ll never understand.” 

The words shouldn’t have hurt, because Akira’d heard them a hundred times by now, but they always stung. He knew it was Sojiro’s attempt at tough love, but right now what Akira really needed was the Sojiro who’d make his coffee with a dollop of whipped cream when he was feeling like shit, not even yelling at him about wasting perfectly good coffee.

Akira needed the father he’d had and lost a handful of times instead of… this. 

Sojiro leaned down through the open door. “C’mon. I’ll feed you before I go home— but after this you’ll need to feed yourself. Got it?”

The knot lodged in Akira’s throat didn’t go away. He’d managed to force-feed himself a plate of Sojiro’s curry, barely tasting anything but heat, before climbing the stairs and depositing himself on his futon. He didn’t even bother changing into his pajamas, curling up in the middle of his bed, his school uniform feeling more like a prison uniform and the ring of sorrow around his neck like a ball and chain.

His phone buzzed and went unanswered. 

* * *

Akira dreamed of gold butterflies and shattered diamonds and something lurking in a hopeless place.

* * *

Akira knew how this day was supposed to go, and Goro Akechi in his perfectly-pressed Shujin uniform, wearing only one glove as he sat in the second to last seat nursing a cup of coffee at 7:45 on the dot certainly wasn’t part of it. 

“Why’re you here?” 

“Oh, Akira-kun,” Akechi said with a smile as he lifted his coffee up to his lips. He took a long, lingering sip, before turning back to Sojiro. He looked, well, _weird_ , in the Shujin black and red, and for the briefest second Akira mourned the loss of Akechi’s gray jacket— which he immediately regretted. “It’s good that you’ve finally woken up. I was beginning we’d be late.”

There was accusation in his tone, like Akira had mortally offended him and had done it on purpose. 

“Why’re you here,” Akira repeated.

Akechi had the decency to flush, though Akira wasn’t sure if it was real or for show. 

_Probably for show._

Akechi frowned slightly before batting his bangs from his eyes. “I thought it would be nice for us to go together to school, since you don’t know the Tokyo subway system that well.” 

Akira shrugged and adjusted the too-empty bag on his shoulder, feeling the tenseness in his set shoulders begin to ache. He really shouldn’t have been surprised Akechi showed up; the bastard wanted to stop him from being a Phantom Thief, and when Akechi put his mind to something, he usually got what he wanted. 

_Or he died a brutal and lonely death._

“Whatever.” 

Sojiro, who was busying himself with wiping down one of his mugs and clearly trying to not listen in on their conversation, finally looked up from Good Morning Japan. The show was playing some puff peace about cherry blossom viewing parties, which made something in the back of Akira’s head itch, but Sojiro huffing at him certainly didn’t seem to help. “What’d you do— sleep in that thing?” 

Akira glanced down at his uniform, then back to Sojiro. “Yes.” 

If Sojiro had been expecting another response, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grumbled, “What a troublesome kid. How do you stomach him, Akechi?” as he put the mug on the table and filled it, gesturing for Akira to take it.

Akechi laughed and waved his hand in front of him, almost like it was a joke that Akira wasn’t in on. “I’m sure he’s just kidding.” 

“I’m not,” Akira deadpanned, but accepted Sojiro’s coffee with a nod.

“Well, I’m sure you were just worried you’d be late for your first day.” The excuse sounded lazy even for _Akira_ , and Akechi laughed at his own words with that sickening sweet voice that made Akira want to punch him. “Sugar and milk?” Akechi offered with a glint in his eyes. 

Akira shook his head as he took the far-left seat at the counter. “Black’s fine. That stuff ruins the flavor.” 

What he said was the right answer for Sojiro, of course, and Akira’d long-ago gotten used to taking most of his coffee black. Then, with a little more spite than necessary, Akira added, “And only children drink their coffee with milk and sugar, anyway.” 

Why he’d felt the need to jab Akechi, Akira didn’t know, but it still was nice to see Akechi’s mouth form into a straight line and Sojiro try to hide his snort with his dishrag.

“Alright, you two— drink your coffee and go to school. If you don’t get going soon, you’ll miss the train and they’re going to expell you again.” 

Akira bit back that he _had_ been late— multiple times, in fact— and they’d never actually expelled him for it, instead taking another sip of his coffee. 

He was supposed to be late because he’d go into the Metaverse with Ryuji, starting a bromance that would last a lifetime… if Ryuji could remember, of course. 

Thrumming his fingers on the mug as he blew on his coffee, Akira pointedly stared at one of the coffee rings worn into the counter, at the ticking clock, at Good Morning Japan, even. There was something about the cherry blossoms and everyone’s smiling faces that just felt… 

Wrong. 

Still, he looked everywhere except at Goro Akechi, the absolute thorn in his side that was quickly becoming a twisting knife. After all the time he’d imagined what it would be like if Akechi remembered, Akira was very, very quickly wishing it could go back to fanciful thoughts as he suffered yet another timeline by himself. 

What a pain in the ass. 

It wouldn’t be easy to lose Akechi, but Akira had picked up skills in the Metaverse that would definitely help, and having needed to sneak around all of Shibuya after his repeated assassinations, Akira had learned the fastest and most inconspicuous routes from Yongen-Jaya to Shujin. 

Of course, Akechi would be expecting that Akira would try to sneak off the minute they left Leblanc, and that would only make things harder.

Harder, Akira admitted, but not impossible. 

Just as he was contemplating the pros and cons of going back upstairs and climbing through his window, Sojiro tapped the counter in front of him. 

“School. Now.” 

Akira drained the last of his coffee, feeling the familiar burn against the back of his throat. He could see Akechi reaching into his briefcase for his wallet, but Sojiro only waved it away. 

“I got it this time, kid.” 

“O— oh.” Akechi sounded surprised. “But—” 

“You’re doing me a favor, though. Keep this idiot out of trouble, will you?” Sojiro jabbed his thumb in Akira’s direction. “I’ll gladly comp your morning coffee if you come by and make sure he goes to school.”

Akechi beamed. “I’ll do my best, Boss.”

Expecting Akechi of all people to keep him out of trouble was like asking the spider to not eat the fly.

Akira was out the door and flipping the sign to ‘Open’ before Sojiro even had the chance to ask, Akechi trailing hot on his heels. 

“Are you going to just ignore me until we arrive?” Akechi asked, the mask of perfect pleasantness. 

“Yes.” 

Akechi hummed and said something Akira didn’t quite catch as he hurried toward the station. It was a quick walk, barely even a minute, so there was no way he’d be able to get rid of Akechi until at least Shibuya station. If he was lucky, at the transfer he could make a run for it. Akechi would look for him along the Ginza line, but the Hanzomon would get him to Aoyama-Itchome station in just enough time for him to see Ann get into Kamoshida’s car and Ryuji to run into him.

But there was something Akira was missing, wasn’t there?

Swiping his commuter pass at the gate, Akira ignored Akechi and the feeling of unease building in his stomach until the other boy grabbed hold of his wrist with a loud, “for the love of—Kurusu.” 

Akechi pulled him away from the other commuters, nearly shoving him into the station wall.

“For someone who hates touching people, you sure do seem to be doing it a lot,” Akira snapped as he tried yanking his arm away from Akechi, but Akechi had a vice grip on him. It’d only been two days since their trek into Mementos, but Akira could still remember the sting of Akechi’s words in the back of his head, words that he parroted back. “Have you never heard of personal space?” 

Akechi, though, only pulled him to the side as he glanced at his phone. His brow furrowed when he looked at Akira and then the train board, a complicated crossing Akechi’s face. It was one that Akira didn’t understand, had never seen before. 

Before Akira had the chance to say anything, Akechi thumbed through his contacts, tightening his grip.

“What are you doing— let me _go_.” The train was going to arrive on time in a minute and if Akechi didn’t let go he was going to be late. He was going to miss _everything_. “Akechi— let me the fuck _**go**_.” 

“No,” Akechi replied with a sneer as he lifted the phone up to his ear with one hand, the other tightening to the point Akira felt his hand go numb. “Ah, yes— my apologies for calling, but this is Goro Akechi.” 

Akira could hear the train against the tracks, a clip of a video he’d seen over and over again flashing in his mind. 

The trains were supposed to be late today… weren’t they? Then why did the schedule say they were on time?

“I’m afraid to say that Akira Kurusu and I will be late in arriving to school today.” 

Panic bloomed in Akira’s guts like cherry blossoms as he heard a screech of metal against metal and Akechi’s too-cheerful voice. The wind rushed through his hair like a spring gale, and— 

“There’s been an accident at our train station.” 

Akira didn’t even have a chance to _breathe_ as the train derailed, smashing into the brick wall. The sounds— crunching, squealing, screaming— echoed through the tunnels, the shockwave reverberating through that station. He didn’t have time to think as Akechi dropped his phone and yanked him behind a pillar, narrowly missing a chunk of plaster that fell exactly where they’d been standing not a second before. 

The smell of blood and metal and agony filled the station, sharp like a gunshot. 

A train derailed in Yongen-Jaya. 

Akechi derailed a train in Yongen-Jaya. 

Akechi derailed a train in Yongen-Jaya because he was still working for Shido— 

Yes. But that wasn’t why.

Akechi derailed a train in Yongen-Jaya to keep Akira from becoming a Phantom Thief.

_You did that on purpose._

Akechi stared at him, eyes wider than Akira had ever seen them before. There was something there, something that felt like that moment in Shido’s Palace when the watertight bulkhead crashed down. There was something in his eyes like a wild animal caught in a trap, and when Akira instinctively reached out— for what, he wasn’t sure— Akechi flinched. 

“I—” Whatever he was going to say died on his lips as Akechi turned his head and vomited his morning coffee into the settling ash of his own ruin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop there it is. Look at Akechi fucking with the timeline with a bang.


	4. Chapter 4

Goro Akechi looked almost human covered in his own blood.

This wasn’t the first time Akira had seen Akechi bleeding, the red splashed across his face as he stared at him with complete and utter contempt a memory that had haunted Akira though timeline after timeline. There was something about the stark contrast between perfectly pale skin and blood the color of Akechi’s eyes that made Akira’s stomach churn, but he didn’t know why. They’d gone into the Metaverse a hundred times over the course of the timelines, and though Akechi had never been one to show his weakness, blood was an unfortunate fact of life. 

The was, however, the first time that Akira had punched him hard enough to draw blood.

In some way the crunch of Akechi’s nose against his fist almost felt like _vindication_ , except there was vomit on Akechi’s lips and a glassiness to his eyes that reminded Akira too much of what the cognition had looked like on Shido’s ship. Whatever he felt rang hollow when Akechi didn’t even bother to wipe his mouth.

No smirk. No snark. Not even a hint of the haughtiness that fit Akechi like a glove.

Just… empty.

Except Akechi had got what he wanted, had fucked up the timeline in a way Akira couldn’t fix, and all Akira wanted to do was fucking _scream_. Punching him wouldn’t fix any of this, because Akechi ruined his chance of meeting Ryuji. It didn't even make him feel better. It just made him feel as hollow as Akechi's eyes.

But Akira could fix it— if he rushed to the school, if he ignored the smarting in his fist, if he somehow got to Ryuji before he’d got to Shujin’s front steps, if he did a thousand things he knew he’d never do because he could hear people screaming and begging for help and… they _needed_ him.

Ryuji was safe. He couldn’t get into Kamoshida’s Palace without the Metanav. These people, though? How much time did they have? 

There was something niggling at the back of his mind, something that Akechi had said in the last loop.

“ _Your hero complex makes me want to puke.”_

Except the vomit on his collar wasn't because of Akira. It had nothing to do with Akira at all. 

“Stay here.” 

Akechi didn’t listen because _of course_ he didn't, following after Akira toward the carnage that was the train he’d derailed, eyes unblinking and nose dripping blood that splattered against his white turtleneck in a _drip drip drip_ that sounded too much like snow against glass. 

Part of Akira wanted to punch him again and again until Akechi went down and didn’t get back up. Another part wanted to grab hold of him by his Shujin uniform and not let go until he couldn’t feel the ash and bile trying to claw its way up his throat. And another… another part of Akira, the secret part that he kept hidden because he knew it was _wrong_ , wished that Akechi hadn’t pulled him away from the crumbling ceiling. Maybe if he died this time instead of falling asleep on the train back to Inaba, he wouldn’t wake up.

He’d finally be free. 

Instead, Akira helped a few of the uninjured people on the platform pry the subway car doors open, feeling his nails bend and his eyes burn. He tried not to look at Akechi, tried not to think about Shido’s ship or Maruki’s Palace, but Akira had never been able to look away from Akechi. 

The whisper of something deep and dark echoed in his head, words and thoughts that he screamed into his pillow night after night when no one could hear. 

_You can’t save anyone, least of all him_.

And, looking at the broken and battered bodies inside the mangled subway car, Akira didn’t even know if he _wanted_ to save this Goro Akechi anymore.

* * *

Tae Takemi was there because she could smell blood from a mile away. Or the sounds from the crash had roused her from her bed early, if she'd gone to be at all. 

On a normal day, Takemi wouldn’t roll out until at least ten. Akira had long gotten used to the woman’s clinic being open until all hours of the night and then _maybe_ opening at noon, if he was lucky. So, it definitely came as a shock when Akira finished pulling another dazed passenger from the wreckage to see her jumping over the turnstile with a bag of medical supplies thwacking into a salaryman who hadn’t moved fast enough. 

She was a blessing in too-high high heels and lab coat already splattered with blood, barking out orders like she ran the place as she pressed gauze against nasty gashes and set broken bones without so much as breaking a sweat. Her day-old eyeliner was the only thing that gave anything away, but even then she was as sharp-eyed as ever. 

That and how she leveled Goro Akechi with a strange look before asked, “Who slugged _you_?” 

“I— I fell.” 

Tae glanced from Goro to Akira, then down to his bruising hand, before tossing a pack of Takemedic and gauze at them. “Whatever you say. Take one and get back to work.” 

It reminded him of the no-nonsense attitude she had when she showed up to Leblanc after Sae’s palace in every other timeline, all emotion devoid of her face as she popped his shoulder back into its socket and stitched up the nasty gash over his eye. She had been worried, sure, but the best way for Tae Takemi to deal with pesky emotions like fear or anger was to work until she dropped, then crawl back on her elbows until she’d finished exactly what she set out to do. 

She always said sleep was for the dead, so maybe that was why all AKira wanted to do was curl up in bed and waste away.

“You hurt, kid?” 

Akira shook his head, ignoring his bloody knuckles. “I’m fine—” 

“Then get out of the way so I can do my job, yeah?” 

It didn’t take long for the firefighters, police, and paramedics to show up, and though Akira felt like he could keep digging for survivors (and so far that was all it had been— people maimed, but still _breathing_ ) they’d forcefully ejected both Akira and Akechi from the station. 

There was a line of yellow caution tape and police blocking off the exit to the station, keeping the flood of reporters and rubber-neckers as far back as the little Italian-Chinese fusion restauran a stone's throw from Leblanc. In the back, nearly washed out from the flashing lights, Akira could see the faint outline of Ohya’s glasses, her favorite camera poised at the entrance just waiting for someone to walk by.

Ohya. Why wasn't he surprised she'd show up? 

The last thing Akira needed was for _her_ to see Akechi covered in blood. She was too smart from her own good, and would have been able to suss something about Akechi out with enough sleuthing, like she had in the third timeline. Then again, she'd only caught on to Akechi's scent because Akira had asked her to, but... 

Better safe than sorry.

Akira scrambled backward into the stairwell as several first-responders rushed by, barely able to grab hold of Akechi’s ungloved hand before he made it to the final step. Akechi's ring dug into Akira's palm, but he held firm.

"Hold on." 

Akechi didn’t say anything, barely even seemed to recognize Akira was there, but did let out a “Hmph,” when Akira yanked his Shujin uniform jacket off, tossing it on top of Akechi’s head. 

“You _want_ the paparazzi to see you?” 

Akechi pulled Akira’s jacket off his head, letting it fall limp on one of his shoulders. The blood on his shirt and under his nose looked almost black, and Akira felt his jaw twitch when Akechi used the sleeve of his jacket to mop up the blood. It didn’t do much, mostly smearing it down his jaw, but Akechi didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m _counting_ on it,” Akechi said after a tense moment, words lingering under the sirens. He didn’t elaborate, instead pulling Akira’s uniform jacket off his shoulders. Akira thought he’d drop it on the floor, maybe even step on it for good measure, but instead Akechi folded it over his arm and headed out into the buzzing chatter around Yongen-Jaya. 

_ “Oh my god, is that Goro Akechi?”  _

_ “Was he on the train?”  _

_ “What’s he doing here in Yongen-Jaya?”  _

_ “Do you think this is about those mental shutdowns?”  _

_“He said something about the psychotic breakdowns maybe being connected on Good Morning Japan last week…”_

In the second timeline and on, Akira had listened carefully for every mention of Goro Akechi starting on April 9th. There were mentions of the “second coming of the Detective Prince” all the way back in April, but there wasn’t an actual interview on Good Morning Japan until mid-May.

But the crowd already knew him and knew him _well_. This really didn’t surprise Akira; Akechi had, after all, admitted to already toying with the timeline by going into Palaces and changing hearts. What were a few more breakdowns and psychotic episodes to Goro Akechi, after all? 

_This_ , Akira thought savagely as Akechi stood in front of the crowd. What was he going to do— give a speech?

For a flicker of a moment, Akechi’s spine went ramrod straight, arm clutching Akira’s jacket to his chest as his mouth parted for words that never came. Something flitted across his face— panic, maybe— before his tongue darted out to lick the blood and vomit from the corner of his mouth. 

In all the time he’d spent with the other boy, Akira had never seen Akechi at loss for words. 

It didn’t look good on him.

Pity welled up in Akira’s guts, though he knew that Akechi deserved none of it. This was his own fault, after all. He’d been the one to orchestrate this. It was almost _stupid_ of Akira to think that things had changed, that Goro Akechi remembering the other timeline would have made him rebel against Shido; it would have gotten him killed. He _knew_ this.

But to purposely alter a different train conductor in the selfish hopes of destroying the original timeline? Just to make it so Akira didn't get to school?

This was… impulsive. Rash, even. There were too many holes in the story, things that others would consider to be too coincidental. What was it that Ohya always said? 

_ Once is a coincidence. Twice is a pattern. Three times? That's a conspiracy. And conspiracies get people disappeared. _

Just what was Akechi trying to do?

Akechi opened his mouth. 

"I di—"

What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

“Stop gawking at the kid, for crying out loud! What’s wrong with you people? Move— get outta my way. C’mon— we’re going. You, too.” 

Akira had always appreciated Sojiro, but in that moment, the man was like a guardian angel swooping from the heavens and through the crowd of gawking onlookers, grabbing both Akechi and Akira by the arms as he dragged them out of the spotlight. 

Sojiro was saying something that went in one ear and out the other, his voice panicked and strained as his grip tightened around Akira’s wrist. Akira tried to think, to listen, but all he could feel were _eyes_ drilling into his spine as they buzzed through the crowd and into the alleyway leading to Leblanc.

Akira braved a look back at the journalists, noting that Ohya had zeroed in on them with a look Akira knew and knew _well_. 

So much for flying under her radar.

* * *

_ ”Do you think people like me deserve happiness?” _

Akira stared down into the depths of the bath, back pressed up against the side and hands clutched in his lap. He could still hear the faint echo of sirens in the distance, a harsh sound that filtered through the bathhouse just under the sound of running water.

There was a silent serenity to the bathhouse that never failed to relax him, memories of soft conversations and trust building from shared sorrow tinging the surface of the steaming water. This was a special place for him— for _them_ — and yet, today, he would have rather been bound and chained in Kamoshida’s dingy, dirty castle. 

Hell, even stuck in one of Mr. Ushimaru’s unending social studies lectures would have been better than this. 

Maybe it was in part to the ring of sorrow around his neck, but Akira was willing to bet that it had more to do with the other occupant of the bath.

Akira glanced at Akechi from the corner of his eye. The other boy had taken the furthest corner from Akira, sinking down into the water until the tips of his hair and his mouth were completely submerged. His nose was swollen and twin bruises stood stark under his eyes, and every time he breathed he came dangerously close to inhaling steaming bathwater. 

_Ace Detective drowns in bath after escaping train derailment. What a way to go,_ Akira thought sourly as he rubbed his busted knuckles. 

“What do you have to wince about?” It was the first thing Akechi had said since Sojiro had gotten them from the train station, and Akira wished immediately that Akechi hadn’t said anything at all. “You didn’t have your face smashed in.” 

There was no malice or anger. In fact, Akechi said it as matter-of-factly as he would to describe the weather. No guilt, no shame— Akechi’s voice was as cool and uninterested as it had been when greeting Akira in the station, talking about melon pan and memories like they meant _nothing_ to him.

_That’s because they **didn’t** mean anything to him._

“You deserved it,” was what Akira finally settled on, rubbing his knuckles a little harder. “You deserve a lot worse.” 

“No one died—” 

“That you know of.” Sure, in the past timelines, Akechi’s little stunt with the trains hadn’t killed anyone, but it had left permanent scars— broken bones, brain injuries, lost limbs. And for what— for Shido to get rid of his competition? For Akechi to prove himself? “Why?” 

An unreadable expression crossed Akechi’s face. “Because I could.” Then, almost so soft Akira could barely hear, “Because you couldn’t.”

Akira’s eyes narrowed. “Do you feel guilty?” 

“No,” Akechi lied.

"Then why'd you try to tell them you did it?" 

"I wasn't going to," he lied again.

He’d never blamed Akechi in the other timelines; he hadn’t had much of a choice. Akechi hadn’t told him everything, bits and pieces hidden like landmines in a flower field, but he’d gotten the gist. 

Yaldabaoth reached out to him when he was fourteen, whispering ruin and his Masayoshi Shido’s name like _justice_ in Akechi’s ear. He’d reached out, letting his anger and pain to rip him open until all he could feel was the encroaching numbness. He wore Robin Hood like a mask of its own, one of _righteousness_ and _truth_ and _hope_ , and when Wakaba Isshiki offered him her hand, he’d accepted.

She’d ripped Loki from the festering hole his mother’s hanging corpse left, and what came after… 

A part of Akira, the part that remembered his mother’s cold hand in his as the snow fell from the gray sky above, couldn’t hate Akechi for Wakaba Isshiki’s death. He’d never say it out loud, never let Akechi— or, god forbid, _Futaba_ — know, but Akira wondered more than once if he would have done the same.

It was strange to think of the woman he’d met in January of the other timelines tinged wrong by Maruki's powers as being the same person whose Palace had become Akechi’s first step into his own ruin. 

Akechi’s words echoed in Akira’s mind, words that he’d whispered in this same room in another time so far away Akira could almost convince himself it was nothing but a dream. 

_ ”Do you think any of us really deserve happiness?” _

This wasn’t the Akechi of the other timelines, the Akechi who didn’t think he had any other choice. This Akechi knew what he was doing, knew the chaos he was wreaking, and did it anyway. 

This Akechi… Akira _did_ blame. 

“If it’s all the same to you, next time you feel the urge to do something just because you _can,_ don't.” There was warning in his tone, but for what, Akira didn’t even know.

“What’ll you do, Kurusu? Kill me?” Akechi laughed, his voice hollow. “There wouldn’t be a point, as it’s become clear to me that I’m already in hell.” He closed his eyes, submerging himself in the steaming water until all Akira could see was his hair fan out like an apparition disappearing into smoke. 

Akira didn’t want to stay here with Akechi anymore. The water was tainted and Akira only felt less clean than he had when they got in. He needed— he needed to go home and sleep.

_I need to get this necklace off,_ Akira thought as he felt the ice against the hollow of his throat, watching as little oxygen bubbles dotted the surface of the tub, barely visible through the steam.

The bubbles from Akechi were beginning to slow by the time Akira stood and wrapped a towel around his waist. He waited for one, two, _three_ more seconds before reaching down and yanking the other boy up to the surface by his armpits. 

Akechi sputtered, but Akira ignored him. 

“Wh— what was _that_ for?” he snarled, struggling like a wet, feral animal against Akira’s grip. What little of his face that wasn’t bruised was an angry red. “Let go of me, Kurusu—” 

“If I don’t get to kill myself, you don’t either.” 

If anything, that only made Akechi struggle _harder_. 

“Do _not_ compare us, you pitiful excuse— let me _**go**_! I’m not—” 

Akira caught Akechi’s closed fist in his hand, feeling uneven, raised skin against his palm. Glancing down at Akechi’s left hand, the one he always wore his glove on even though Akira had the other, he immediately wished he hadn’t.

What should have been a hand was nothing but a mess of scars. It looked like a wild Shadow used his hand as a scratching post, maybe even a chew toy. There wasn’t rhyme or reason, fresh scars just under still-oozing and open gashes. It looked like Akechi had put his fist through a plate glass window… on more than one occasion.

“The Metaverse,” Akechi replied as if he’d rehearsed it in the mirror a hundred times before putting his hand through it. 

“Bullshit.” 

Akechi scoffed. “You’re calling me a liar? A lot of gall coming from _you_ —” 

Akira barely had time to duck Akechi’s other fist, thankful for years in the Metaverse and memories of exactly how Akechi liked to fight dirty. 

“Why’re you lying?” 

“I’m _not_ —” 

“We both know injuries from the Metaverse don’t transfer over.” Akira ran his fingers against Akechi’s knuckles, fingertips gentle against still-healing skin. "Why are you lying?" he repeated.

Akechi’s mouth fell open before his eyes narrowed as he growled, teeth bared. “Why don’t you shut your fucking mouth and—” 

“Hey, I thought I'd bring you kids some clean cl... _Oh, for the love of_ —” 

Akira clenched his teeth so hard he heard a _crack_. Akechi merely slunk back into the water, though Akira wasn’t entirely sure how much of Akechi’s dignity— if he had any to begin with— was left. 

Sojiro pushed his glasses up and with as much grace as a very, very tired father of stupid teenagers, dropped a plastic bag against the tiles. “This is a public bath, y'know,” was all he said as he very, _very_ deliberately turned his back on the two. “The cops are at the cafe. Get dressed and don’t—” his voice _cracked_. “Just get dressed.” 

Akira didn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed because he could still feel Akechi’s shattered skin against his palm.

For some reason, it reminded him of shattered diamonds. 

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a blaze of police interrogations and Leblanc coffee, Akira letting his finger circle the lip of his mug until Sojiro took his mug away with a, “You’ve had enough, kid.” 

He didn’t say anything, because what was he supposed to say, anyway?

Akechi didn’t stay for long. Akira could still see Akechi in his mind, wearing Akira’s favorite gray long-sleeve t-shirt and a pair of jeans a hair too short, sitting stock-still in the booth as he explained what he’d supposedly _seen_ before the accident. He was out of his chair and halfway out the door the minute the police left, coffee untouched. 

“Maybe you should stay— I can’t imagine you want to get on a train right now, and traffic’s going to be hell.” 

Akira missed when Sojiro was bitter and angry and stand-offish to Akechi when he’d come back from the dead. There was such a genuine kindness to Sojiro’s voice that Akechi— _this_ Akechi— didn’t deserve. Not after the stunt he just pulled.

“I’ll ask one of the officers to drive me home.” Akechi tried to smile, but the bruises blossoming under his eyes reminded Akira of an orchid in its death throes, petals wilting under a winter snap.

Akira felt Akechi’s eyes on him, but he looked away. 

“Just try to ice your face. Wouldn’t want you to be on tv tomorrow looking like you got into a fistfight with someone.” 

Akira put his hand on his lap, and Sojiro didn't seem to notice.

By the time Sojiro trusted Akira to be by himself, playing it off as needing to keep the coffee shop open for anyone who needed a place to relax or regroup after the accident, Akira could feel the weariness set into his bones as he trudged up the stairs. He barely managed to set his alarm to wake up an extra hour early before falling into an uneasy sleep.

He didn’t take off the chain around his neck.

He didn’t deserve to.

* * *

Akira didn’t dream of Velvet Rooms or friendships forged in blood. 

Instead, he dreamed of broken promises and butterflies painted as bright as the sun.

Akira wished he didn’t dream at all. 

* * *

  
  


Yuuki Mishima didn’t have a Persona. 

Or, rather, Yuuki Mishima wasn’t _supposed_ to have a Persona, but this timeline was broken and twisted and _wrong_. But even considering all of that, _this_ didn’t make sense.

In all the other timelines, it had been Akira who dragged Ryuji into the Metaverse. Their budding friendship had been formed that fateful April 11th morning in the middle of a jail cell where Akira had let his inner rebellion tear him open. It hadn’t been to protect himself— it’d been to protect _Ryuji_. 

Akechi had ruined that, but— 

Yuuki Mishima didn’t have a Persona.

Except, clearly in this timeline, he _did_.

_And he stole my cat._

The day had started out not much unlike any other day before Morgana came into Akira’s life: he’d woken up when his alarm clock went off, dressed in a clean uniform, downed half a cup of coffee and plate of curry, and made it to the station before Akechi had the chance to bother showing up. 

_**If** he even wanted to show up,_ Akira thought as he stared at the sealed-off entrance for the train station. 

Right. No train because Goro Akechi was an unrepentant murderer. 

Except...

Instead, Akira paid nearly five thousand yen to get a half-asleep and very annoyed taxi driver to drive the twelve minutes from Yongen-Jaya station to Shujin Academy, except i t took nearly forty-five minutes. Still, he got there early enough to see Mishima arrive at the front gate, a look of utter consternation painted across his face.

“It looks just like school to me,” Mishima was saying, but Akira could only stare in slack-jawed horror as Morgana popped his head out of Mishima’s bag. 

“I told you,” the cat hissed in the same tone that Morgana had used on him every time he wanted Akira to go to bed, “you have to use the Metanav to get back in. I can’t believe you and that moron managed to get in the first time. Even if the two of you _do_ have Personas.” 

“All we did was follow that butterfly,” Mishima murmured half-under his breath as he adjusted his schoolbag. “And anyways, do you have to be in there? You’re heavy.” 

Morgana snickered— or as close to a snicker as he could get. “Wimp. I’m not _that_ heavy. Anyway, you should go to class. We can go back to Kamoshida’s palace after school. Hey, wait— that weirdo with the glasses is staring. Quick, get moving!”

Mishima glanced at him, frowning as he mumbled, “Who’s that guy?” 

“How am I supposed to know? Either way, it doesn’t matter! Get going before that bozo reports us. You can’t be late to class again.”

“I dunno, Morgana,” Mishima said, voice unsteady. “He looks like he’s gunna _kill_ me. Think he doesn’t like cats?” 

"I'm **_not_** a cat!"

Mishima and Morgana continued their conversation, but Akira felt his legs turn to lead under him. He tried to move, tried to follow them, but all he could do was stand still and stare at their retreating forms.

Akira let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in as he stared at Mishima’s back, willing it to break and contort and for Mishima to fall on his hands and knees and shatter to a thousand pieces... because Yuuki Mishima had a Persona. Yuuki Mishima had Morgana. 

Yuuki Mishima was part of the Phantom Thieves and _he_ wasn’t.

How the fuck could _Mishima_ of all people take his place?

Akira felt a hand on his shoulder and for a split second he thought, even though he knew he shouldn’t have, that he’d turn around and see Ryuji. Ryuji would remember, just like Akechi did. He’d give Akira one of those side-arm hugs before hitting in the shoulder, telling him that the train thing yesterday had freaked him out but he didn’t remember Akira’s number and no one really died, right? 

But Morgana hadn’t remembered him.  The only person who remembered was the _wrong_ Akechi, who was standing next to him wearing too much concealer and his perfectly-pressed Shujin uniform, ungloved hand resting on his shoulder. 

The other boy didn’t need to say anything because Akechi already won and they both knew it. 

He did anyway. 

“Come on. Let’s go.” 

Akira stared at shattered diamonds glitter in the sunlight before he turned away from the blinding light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be part of chapter 3, but... well. You now know one of the special characters who is going to be joining the Phantom Thieves this go-round. I was originally going to introduce another important character in this chapter, but it'll have to wair for next time. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter out soon. Apologies for it not being longer.
> 
> This still isn't going to be quite a retelling of the plot. Setting up the first Castle with Kamoshida is about ask far in as I'll be going. There's going to be a little more divergence starting to show as of next chapter.
> 
> Also... what's going on with Akechi?


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re telling me you _can’t_ summon your Persona or you don’t _want_ to?”

Akira tried to ignore the humming in his ears as he stared at the Shadow in front of him. They’d started with the easy ones as they worked their way into Mementos: a Jack-o’-Lantern came first— probably the easiest Shadow to beat to a pulp with so much as a heavy exhale— followed by a Berith, then a Nue, followed by a Fuu-ki and on and on they went, deeper and deeper until the pulsing of the living and breathing embodiment of humanity’s sin nearly broke him.

Through the rest of the floors, it’d been easy to fall into the familiar comradery between him and Akechi. Akira could vaguely remember the second timeline when he and Akechi had started to open up to one another; they’d not just fought through Sae’s Palace together, but had worked through Maruki’s as well. It was nothing like the last timeline, but it was better than nothing. 

Still, Akira found himself looking over his shoulder and spun his wrist— meaning he was ready for a Showtime attack— or grunting out a “Crow!” so Akechi could prepare for a follow-up attack the minute his knife hit a Shadow. Akechi was able to catch some of them, but the fact that they weren’t in lock-step with one another set Akira’s teeth on edge,m.

It wasn’t like this was the first time he had to deal with Akechi learning him again, though. 

He was used to it. 

But now, staring at a team of four Rangdas who Akira had learned in the first timeline explicitly _not_ to shoot at, he was reminded at exactly _why_ he was down in the pits of hell. 

“I _can’t_ ,” Akira yelled as he dodged the fourth Madoon the Rangdas sent at him in the last two minutes. It would have been easier if Akechi just summoned Robin Hood and blessed the ever-loving shit out of them, but Akechi was being _obstinate_ and a grade-A pain in Akira’s ass for no other reason than the fact that he _could_. 

Maybe it was revenge for the bathhouse. It very well could have just been because Akechi didn’t seem too fond of him this go-round, Akira couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he’d brought a knife and gun to a magic fight, and he was thoroughly getting trounced. 

It didn’t matter the reason. All that mattered was Akechi was far too busy leaning against the wall in the Path of Sheriruth, picking at his nails, to bother helping Akira. 

“Are you going to—” 

“No,” Akechi breezily replied as he reached down to his gun, taking aim at one of the Rangda. “I’m _not_ going to.” 

Akechi let off one shot that immediately ricocheted straight at Akira. He barely had time to duck the bullet, screaming out a “fuck you,” as Akechi snickered. 

“Then figure out how to get your Persona—” 

“I can’t just—” Akira shouted as he dodged a Bloodbath aimed at his head. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last being completely unable to do _anything_. There was fear welling up in him, now, whether it be an aftershock from the Bloodbath or just that panic bubbling inside of him he wasn’t quite sure.

It didn’t matter either way, because Akechi didn’t seem to give a single, solitary shit.

It was only when he fell the tell-tale feeling of a curse attack blossoming just under his feet that Akechi tched and snapped his mask off, summoning Robin Hood to down the Shadows in one fell swoop.

“Pathetic.” 

Akira felt the sweat beading at his temple, but wiping it away cost energy and after all of the useless dodging he’d done, he could barely keep himself from bowling over. 

Akechi seemed to have the same idea, because just as suddenly as his knees buckled Akechi was there— warm and groaning with disgust— to grab him by the shoulder. 

“I’ve never seen you so weak.” 

“S— sorry.” Akechi didn’t deserve an apology, but the thought of yelling at him just made Akira _tired_. It took all the strength in him not to rest his head against Akechi’s shoulder, though he could feel his entire body thrum when Akechi jostled him against the wall.

“You’re just a disappointment like this,” he sneered, but Akira was barely able to feel the bite. “Do you truly believe that you’re incapable of calling your damn Persona without your fickle little friends?” 

“They’re not fickle…” But the words felt like sand in his mouth. 

“They’ve already found someone to replace you.” 

_“No one compares to you, Akira. Not me, not your friends, not even the Gods—so you’re going to live. You’re going to live for the both of us. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”_

“I’m not replaceable.” 

Akechi’s eyes narrowed as he gripped the lapels of Akira’s jacket tight, using enough force for Akira’s head to bounce off the fleshy wall. Akira could see the lines in Akechi’s lips, the little scar hidden just inside the dimple on his left cheek, the beauty mark on his eyelid. All these little places, little imperfections, that made him just that much more beautiful.

Having Akechi so close made Akira’s pulse race and his head ache as his fingers dug feebly at Akechi’s hands. The red glass made Akechi’s eyes look almost black, and coupled with the deep frown all Akira could think about was the snow in Goro’s hair and the soft, secretive smile that bloomed like the scarlet daylily he pulled from the warmth of his jacket.

Akira closed his eyes. 

_“It’s beautiful.”_

“ _Don’t get pathetic on me— it’s just a repayment for your gift._ ” Goro pretended to frown, but Akira caught that soft, barely-there smile he so rarely gave that made Akira’s entire _being_ ache and wish for nothing but time to stop so he could savor the moment. He spun the bloom between his fingers before slipping the long stem into the lapel of Akira’s winter jacket. “ _Hanasaki said this one should bloom at sunrise. I hope you have a better vase to put it in.”_

_“But it’s snowing.”_

_“Then put it facing your bed. I’m sure it’ll do just fine.”_

It was already January 31st, and Akira figured that this Goro, _his_ Goro, had already figured out they were on borrowed time. As that month dwindled to a close, there’d been something in in his actions, wistful and sad, every time they met that ripped pieces of Akira open. 

He couldn’t do anything. He could never do anything. 

_“C’mon— we wouldn’t want to be late for Lyn’s performance.”_

And though they didn’t hold hands, Goro pressed his hand against the small of Akira’s back as he led him down the stairs into the Jazz Jin. 

Akira opened his eyes just as Akechi leaned in closer, so close that for just a moment Akira wished that he could let himself lean forward enough to break the distance. There would be hell to pay, sure, and Akechi would likely break his skull for the sheer audacity, but… 

At least Akira could have the last goodbye that Maruki’s final form had denied them. 

Except… 

“Everyone is replaceable.” Akechi raised his gun against Akira’s chin, though his trigger finger wrapped tight around the handle. “We’re all going to have to get used to this, aren’t we?” 

Akira swallowed, hard.

“Yeah,” he croaked, wishing that the walls of Memento would swallow him whole.

* * *

It took another hour before Akira managed to pull one of his Personas out. Why it had to be Metatron, of all the fucking Personas, Akira didn’t know, but it got the job done. It only showed up for a flicker of a second to bless another round of Rangdas back to the sea of souls, disappearing back into his newly-formed mask.

Still, it was enough for Akechi to get off his case, though he could see the question in Akechi’s eyes that Akira just didn’t have the energy to think about, let alone answer. 

“Well, that wasn’t so hard now was it?”

It took everything in Akira not to scream as Akechi turned and began walking back the way they came. Akira was incredibly grateful that somehow, blessedly, the Shadows had run for the metaphorical hills the moment Metatron arrived. 

At least it would be easier to get home, as long as the Reaper didn’t show up. 

“It’s good that it’s a strong one, at least,” Akechi grudgingly admitted as he adjusted his solitary glove, putting a little more force than Akira thought necessary into pulling the fabric up. “We’ll need all the power we can get. It would have been better if you’d called for Maria, but it’ll do.” 

“Why?” 

It didn’t matter, but why Akechi had mentioned _Maria_ considering his clear and very open dislike of Sumire, Akira didn’t get.

Akechi’s eyes narrowed before speaking slowly, annunciating each of his words as though he were speaking to a child. “Did you think just because _you_ won’t be a member of the Phantom Thieves that we wouldn’t be entering Palaces? We need means to cure ourselves, and neither Loki or Robin Hood will be of any use there.”

“I got that,” Akira muttered as he rubbed at the back of his neck. The red gloves on his hands felt tight, almost constricting, but not even stretching out his fingers quelled the feeling. “But I just don’t get why we can’t—” 

“Involve your little friends? Your precious _girlfriend_?” Akechi sneered. “Do you want to drag your unprepared teammates into a fight that’ll get them killed? Think that’s wise?” 

“I didn’t—” 

Akechi pushed the top of his helmet up just so he could properly glare at Akira. His next words came out like a punch. “We don’t need dead weight to drag us down.”

Akira felt anger coil in his stomach as he spat back, “They wouldn’t drag us down.” 

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Akechi said bluntly. “They’re weak. You were barely able to take me down when it was you and your seven friends— but I see from the Persona you just summoned that it was merely a ploy.” 

Akira didn’t say anything, but that seemed to be as good as an answer. Akechi chuckled, voice dark and condescending. “Ah, so I was right. But my point still stands— your friends don’t have any inkling of what they’re doing. They’ll do nothing but get in our way.” 

“What about Maruki’s palace?” Without them returning to themselves, there’d be a chance that— 

“What about it? From what I remember, you and I would have gotten through it just fine if not for you wanting to play the hero. Face it, Joker. Your friends aren’t strong enough now, if they ever were in the first place.”

Akira _knew_ that some of what Akechi said was true. He knew the limitations of his group better than anyone else. He knew their weakness, their strengths, the way each of them honed and sharpened their skills. He’d seen them all embrace the secret, most hidden parts of themselves and become better because of it. 

Who was Akechi to think he could speak about what they could or couldn’t do?

Except… 

If Akechi noticed Akira’s hesitation, he didn’t let on. 

“We have too much work to do.” Then, almost grudgingly, Akechi added, “I’ve already set the groundwork so Shido and the collective don’t catch wind of your friends, but that means we will need to handle this. _**Without**_ them.” 

Akira pursed his lips, going over Akechi’s words one by one. He didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. 

“What do you mean ‘you set the groundwork?’” 

That, if nothing else, made Akechi preen. “I’ve set up plausible deniability for your friends—Japan may not have heard of ‘the Phantom Thieves of Hearts’ but I can assure you that the police already do.” 

Akira swallowed, eyes going wide. 

“What did you _do_?”

Akechi scoffed. “I said that your friends will have plausible deniability, didn’t I? Last time your group stuck out like a nail that needed to be hammered after that Kamoshida business. At least now the police will just think the Phantom Thieves have grown more bold by making the calling cards public.” 

It was true that making the calling card so public was what had gotten the police— and, by extension, Akechi— on his trail in the other timelines, but Akira accepted it after a while, assuming it was just an inevitability that would get the gears in motion for the public accepting them. “You made calling cards for the others?” 

Akechi gave a half-nod. “I’ve taken down a few of Shido’s cronies. The collective is convinced that a political rival has gained access to the Metaverse, leaving me in the unique situation of hunting myself. Did you even bother to look at the file I sent you?” 

Akira _had_ looked over it, but nothing inside had seemed familiar other than a handful of names he knew from Shido’s ark. There hadn’t been anything about calling cards or false Phantom Thieves or _plausible deniability_.

“Your notes didn’t say anything about that.” 

Akechi tched and turned his back on Akira. “Did you take note of any of the names?”

“Just a few from Shido’s palace. Some executives, a politician, a noble,” Akira said after a moment of silence.

“That’s disappointing.” 

“I don’t know what you expected. I’ve been focusing on gods and demiurges.” 

“I expected that, having lived through this three times, you would have been more observant of your surroundings.” There was anger rolling under his words, a storm brewing that Akira knew would come swiftly and without mercy. Akechi’s hands were balled up at his side, the line of his spine and shoulder blades contorting under the leather of his costume.

“I _was_.” Akira stopped in the middle of the path, staring at Akechi’s form which was very pointedly continuing forward without pause. “I don’t see what they have to do with any of this. They’re not the ones who stuck us in this time loop.” 

That, at least, made Akechi falter. The tenseness lingered in the air before Akechi replied. “You can’t be certain of that.” 

Akira couldn’t be sure of anything at that point, but the chances were very, remarkably low. After having been a pawn in Yaldabaoth’s game and Maruki’s distorted desires, there was no way that some men in black suits could have possibly done _this_ to him. 

“There’s something else we’re missing. From what you’ve told me—” 

“What the _other_ me told you.” Akechi’s clenched teeth made a creaking that reverberated through Akira’s bones. “Don’t confuse the two.” 

Akira tried to not wince, even if Akechi couldn’t see. 

“Fine, from what the _other_ Akechi told me, Shido barely understood anything about the Metaverse.” Akira paused, giving Akechi the change to nod his head. “In the last timeline, Futaba went digging through some encrypted files from the research facility— files that the _other_ you got for her.” 

There was a question in the way Akechi turned his head, but Akira ignored it. Akechi didn’t have a monopoly on pettiness, after all. 

“There weren’t any mentions at all about time in the data, but it doesn’t mean that the researchers don’t know anything. There were a lot of allusions to other projects, though most of them were hidden under codenames.”

“How do you know?” 

“Because I read them… with you.” 

Memories of Futaba’s pale, pinched face rose to the surface of Akira’s mind, though he pushed them down. Her mother’s name at the top of confidential files describing with exquisite detail the human heart, the method of ripping a person’s cognitive self apart until a Persona emerged, had left Futaba silent and still. He could remember the way her mouth fell out, how her eyes had filled with tears, how she’d nearly lost herself in her own misery. 

But she didn’t, because Futaba had always been strong. She’d already pulled herself from the depths of her own despair, faced the ugliest parts of herself and still decided to persevere through all of the pain and loss.

Akira had wondered then, just as he did now that he stared at Akechi’s twisted shoulders, if Futaba had already suspected the truth about her mother. After all, the only way to cause a mental shutdown was for a person to have a Palace, wasn’t it?

“Akechi…” 

For a long moment, Akechi didn’t say anything, before finally he let out a half-hearted laugh, turning to look at Akira. His laugh sounded like broken promises and locking watertight doors. “Fine, then. Let’s say that the collective _doesn’t_ have anything to do with our predicament. It changes nothing.” Goro’s eyes flashed, dangerous and ready to pounce with the slightest misstep. “We have to bring him down— the faster the better.” 

His voice was what really gave away the fire burning through Akechi. In Maruki’s world, despite how twisted and wrong it was, Goro had known who he was and what he was meant to do. He had cut Shido’s strings and set himself free, only for Maruki to catch him in his web. Caught and toyed with and broken until there was nothing left, Akira knew that there had to be an end to it all. He just… 

Akira didn’t want to watch it happen again. 

He couldn’t watch him die again.

“Goro, I need to find out more about the researchers. Shido’s… the Phantom Thieves can handle him.”

But Akechi brushed off his words. “You know why _I_ have to do this, not your friends.”

Akira’s breath caught in his throat. It didn’t matter why Akechi wanted to do it, only that he would try and fail and _die_. And Akira? He didn’t— he couldn’t help Akechi. 

He couldn’t help _anyone_.

“He— I understand that there are other things you care about. That this _second chance_ doesn’t mean anything to you, since you’ve already experienced it. But for me—” Akechi’s voice broke and he straightened his back and turned. 

When he spoke again, his voice was sharp and just too tight. His eyes were alight, his anger palpable, but just under the surface Akira could see the flickers of Goro at his most human. 

“Kurusu, I’m going to bring Shido down. Let’s make one last deal.” Akechi reached out with his left hand. The leather seemed to mock Akira. “Help me bring him down one last time and I will help you figure out what’s causing this loop. I’ll even help you track down the researchers. You’ll do this, won’t you?”

Akechi’s words may as well have been a slap to the face. They struck like a blow, and Akira turned his cheek, instinctively waiting for the next to land.

“I— I…” 

Akira couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the face he’d failed time and time again. He didn’t want to remember the snow in Goro’s hair, the daylily that lived for a single, beautiful day on his shelf, turning toward light that wasn’t there. He could see that final goodbye in Goro’s eyes, those words whispering in the back of his head as Akira slipped a ring on his finger, the shattered diamonds glittering in the dying light.

Goro Akechi was haunting him and he wasn’t even dead yet. 

“Goro—” 

“Stop calling needs that,” Akechi growled, but Akira heard the pain like nails on a chalkboard. “You want to follow your friends.”

In all of the timelines, all of the days and weeks and months Akira had spent with Goro Akechi, this tone… this one was new. 

“It’s not that.” 

And truthfully, though the loss of his friends felt like a shot through the stomach, it wasn’t why Akira couldn’t. Akechi thought he was brave, special even, but Akira knew the truth. He’d been locked into this game because Gods were cruel and Akira was too weak to do anything. All he could do was follow the road outlined for him, already knowing where it led was to damnation.

He’d managed the last loops because he thought he could figure out how to save him, but… 

Did any of them deserve to be saved?

Tears stung at the corners of Akira’s eyes as he stared at the man before him. “Please— Goro. Listen to me. You have to stop. Just— just run. Get out of Tokyo, get out of the country. Don’t come back.” It’s what he begged Goro to do in the last loop, clinging to him as the snow melted against his window. 

Akechi shook his head, a movement so familiar that Akira felt his heart twist in his chest. “You want me to run away like some coward? You think I’m too _weak_ to save myself?” 

“That’s— that’s not why…” 

Why was he always like this? Why did he take every word Akira said and twist them until they weren’t his anymore? 

“Please,” Akira begged, not for the first time.

It didn’t matter. It never mattered.

“You’ve made your choice.” Akechi’s voice was blank, cool and unperturbed, though Akira could see the tick in the corner of his mouth as he lowered his outstretched hand. “I can do this on my own.” 

Turning his back, Akira felt the tether between them shatter. 

He’d lost Goro Akechi again, like he always did.

The tinkling of chains echoed through the air, and not for the first time he wished, more than anything, that the Reaper could finish what he couldn’t.

* * *

On Friday morning, Akira found himself sitting on the edge of the roof, staring out into the mockingly-perfect blue sky. He kicked his foot out, feeling nothing but the empty expanse of air below a steep drop. He’d put Akechi’s glove on, a warmth that made him remember Leblanc’s attic that winter night as the gray sky swallowed the last rays of a final sunrise, but everything else was cold.

It wasn’t supposed to be so sunny, today. It was supposed to be cloudy, the sky a harbinger of what was to come. The clouds were meant to be dark and foreboding, not cotton candy fluff waiting for Akira to reach out to grab one from the sky to take a bite.

Ryuji would have elbowed him, and Haru would wonder about how a cloud would taste to which Morgana would demand cotton candy be served to him post-haste. Makoto would tell Morgana that candy wasn’t meant for animals all the while Futaba goaded him into a competition on who could eat the most. Sumire would talk about how the topic was making her hungry, with Yusuke jumping in to talk about how he hadn’t eaten lunch _again_ , while Ann daydreamed about a cotton candy ice cream parfait she’d seen in Shinjuku.

And Goro— 

_“You can be so sentimental, sometimes.”_

Akira held his gloved hand to his chest, fingers playing with the ring of sorrow.

The sky was mocking him. That was just a simple fact of this timeline. 

Akira knew what today was, what significance the roof meant. He’d tried to talk Shiho Suzui off the roof more than once, but she’d only stared through him with a dead-eyed look before taking the plunge. There hadn’t even been a whisper of a rumor about him being on the roof, so Akira could only imagine it was whatever kept him locked in the time loop had done something. 

Now, thought…

Everything had already changed, hadn’t it?

Maybe, this time, instead of it being Suzui…

The sound of the door creaking open made Akira turn his head, glancing at the form emerging from the dark stairwell.

Shiho Suzui reminded Akira of a bird with a broken wing. The bruise across her forehead stood in stark contrast to her pale skin, her high ponytail mockingly positive in comparison to her downcast, broken eyes. She carried herself with a limp, back slumped and arms dangling at her side.

Akira had never been told with words what Kamoshida had done to Suzui, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out from the bruises on her thighs and the handprints around her wrists.

Guilt bubbled up in Akira’s throat and he had to look away. He’d been so preoccupied with his own misery that he hadn’t stopped Kamoshida from raping an innocent girl. He’d let this happen— just like he let everything happen before. Just like he’d let Akechi derail the train. Just like he’d let Goro die. 

What kind of Phantom Thief was he? What kind of _man_ was he?

“Oh. I didn’t know someone was up here.” 

Akira felt a hand graze the air next to his shoulder, pulling back before it had the chance to land.

Akira swallowed the lump in his throat, lifting his head to look at the unforgiving blue sky. 

“Yeah.” 

He waited for a moment, watching the girl out of the corner of his eye. He still half-expected her to pull herself onto the ledge and jump like she had all those times before, but instead she sat herself down on the edge, letting her feet dangle next to his. 

They sat there in the silence of a perfect spring morning, staring out against a skyline that felt more like the bars on a cell than a city. 

How long they sat there, Akira didn’t know. It wasn’t until the toe of Suzui’s sneaker bumped against his foot that Akira looked back at the girl.

“You’re the new transfer student, right?” her voice was soft, somber and so very sad, but she was looking at him with an unflinching canniness that made Akira’s blood go cold. She raised her thumb to her mouth, biting on a nail that was already bitten down to the quick.

“I— yeah,” he finally whispered. “And you’re Shiho Suzui.” 

Suzui tried to smile, but it reminded Akira of the way his mother smiled just before she died. There was too much pain there to bring any comfort. “I… I heard the rumors,” she said after a moment. 

Akira sighed. “They don’t bother me.” 

The girl’s mouth pulled into a frown. “But something does.” 

The irony of a broken and battered girl standing on a roof she’d jumped from four other times, trying to bring comfort to Akira wasn’t lost on him. No wonder Ann had loved her so much; even in her darkest moment, even when all hope was lost, she still cared about others. 

She was everything Akira wasn’t. 

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” 

The sharp, pained gasp sounded like a bird’s lament. Akira could see the blood on her lips as she pulled her thumb away, a streak of death against soft pink. 

“We wouldn’t be up here if there wasn’t.” 

Akira gently nudged her foot with his own, but he let the silence linger over them, a pain that didn’t need to be spoken out loud. They both had lost their innocence, what they felt made them human. 

Akira could hear bells tolling in the distance, something that grounded him when he had nothing but air to stand on.

“Do… do you think everything happens for a reason?” Suzui’s voice was unsteady, ready to break at a light breeze, but Akira could hear something just under the surface, something that was everything and nothing at all.

“I don’t know,” Akira breathed out. They weren’t the most comforting words, but they were the truth— the only truth Akira knew anymore. 

“It’s scary.” 

“Life’s scary. But...” Akira licked his lips, letting the words linger in the air. “I don’t think we’re supposed to know.” 

She looked away from Akira then, staring up into the wide expanse of blue above them. Her eyes were wet, teartracks tracing their way down to her neck. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we aren’t supposed to know.” Suzui hummed again, but her voice was stronger, now— it wasn’t much, but it was _something_. “But maybe we have a little more control than I thought. Maybe we don’t have to suffer this much.” 

Akira slowly turned, resting both feet on the rooftop. He said nothing as he reached out for Shiho’s hand, not caring when he felt the bite of her jagged nails against the supple leather. 

“Don’t let go.” 

The pain was still there, as vivid as the blood on her lips, but Shiho Suzui was stronger than Akira had ever given her credit for. 

“I won’t.” 

* * *

  
  


“Mister… What’s ‘sorrow’?” 

Akira stared at the little boy perched on the hood of his impossibly-full car, at the way his legs dangled off the side, kicking against the side with a gentle pitter-patter. 

It reminded Akira of the roof, of Shiho’s hand in his as he pulled her back from the ledge. But it also reminded him of the sound of snow against the window and failure that stung like an open, oozing wound. 

It was why he’d found himself in Mementos, walking around the upper floors aimlessly. He couldn’t progress like he’d originally wanted to— Akechi was the one the public knew, after all— but it didn’t mean he could spend a few hours cooling his head with Jose. 

The kid… didn’t seem lonely, per se, but he always seemed happy in the past when Akira showed up. And, after having Akechi run the other direction any time Akira came within ten feet of him while all his other friends had forgotten him, having a kind face was worth the trip.

Akira adjusted himself on the box Jose left out for him to use as a chair, wincing when he felt the wood dig into his spine. He really needed to bring a folding chair or something for Jose to keep in his trunk, because he was getting way too old for this. 

“Why do you want to know?”

Jose… he was something Akira had latched onto when he first showed up. There wasn’t a way in hell Akira had just _missed_ Jose the first time; Jose stuck out like a firefly in the haze of Mementos, an impossible oddity that Akira was positive didn’t even exist until the second timeline. 

At first, Akira thought that maybe it was Jose who had sent him back—he was just too strange to not have something to do with it. But Jose had never once behaved as though he were anything but a very confusing, very weird boy. 

Of course, Akira had seen the yellow glow in his eyes— it was the same as Justine, Caroline, and Lavenza. He was clearly connected to the Velvet Room in some way, though every time Akira mentioned it, Jose would cock his head to the side and stare at Akira for a good, long minute before declaring, “I dunno, Mister!” 

Jose didn’t know much of anything, though to hold that against him seemed fruitless at this point. Still, the sheer earnestness in Jose’s voice made Akira pause. 

It wasn’t the first time Jose had asked him about human emotion, but it was the first time he’d ever asked him with such pointedness that Akira didn’t quite know what to say. 

Akira tapped his fingers on the box under him, the steady thrum of his fingers and Jose’s feet like a song in his head. Finally, Akira asked, “Why?” 

Jose shrugged with both shoulders so hard that for a second Akira thought he’d fall off the hood. “I dunno, Mister. It’s been stuck in my mind since you first came.” 

Akira’s hand went up to the chain around his neck, feeling the icy cold of the ring of sorrow bite through the leather of his glove. The movement caught Jose’s attention, and the boy visibly frowned. 

“I don’t like your ring,” Jose explained softly, looking away from Akira and into the darkness. A look of consternation crossed the little boy’s face and he pouted. “Why do you wear it?” 

“Because it’s strong.”

At that, Jose shook his head. “Maybe, but that’s not why you wear it, is it?” 

Akira didn’t want to look at those imploring yellow eyes. They saw too much and understood so little. 

If anything, that made Jose’s frown deepen. “It… it doesn’t feel good. When I was fixing it for you, Mister… it made me feel so _sad_. Why do humans have to feel that way? Why’re you making yourself feel bad?” 

“I dunno,” Akira answered, hoping that Jose could hear the honesty in his tone. “Humans are… difficult to understand.” 

Jose scrunched his nose before jumping off the hood of the car to stand in front of Akira. He reached down to snatch the ring of sorrow from Akira’s hand. His eyes narrowed and he scrunched his face in a way that would have been cute had he not been so damn close.

“Huh.” 

“What do you mean, huh?” 

Jose held the ring for a moment before dropping it back down to Akira’s chest. “It feels just like Mister Candy Cane’s ring, except he’s more angry. Do you think his ring’s why his flowers taste so sad?” 

Oh. 

Akira scrambled backward, feeling dread well up in the very core of his being. 

Oh, no. No, no, no— 

“M— mister! Was it something I said?” 

Akira could hear the blood rushing to his head as he tore through Mementos as if the Reaper was hot on his heels. How could he have been so fucking _stupid_? So fucking foolish? How had he missed this? How hadn’t he realized that the anger was just another of his masks that Goro Akechi used to protect himself from the outside world?

Except Akira had noticed, hadn’t he— a hand covered in scars, a puddle of vomit, a ring glistening like shattered diamonds in the light.

He’d known, but he’d turned away.

Akechi’s apartment was barely five minutes from Shibuya Station on foot, but Akira made it there in three. He took the stairs up two at a time, catching himself on the wall as he ran and ran until this throat tightened and his lungs burned. 

But Akira’s feet knew the route like the back of his hand, a reminder of when things had been bad but _better_ , because at least he hadn’t been so _alone_. His hand smacked into the buzzer over and over again before he even had the chance to catch his breath.

Akechi took his sweet time to get to the door, swinging it open with enough force that it slammed into the wall hard enough to dent the plaster. It hit Akechi’s shoulder in the reverb, but he didn’t so much as wince.

“I—”

“What do you want, Kurusu?” Now that he listened, now that he _knew_ , it was impossible to ignore the sheer exhaustion in Akechi’s voice. His hair was up in that ponytail, again, his Shujin pants creased and his white turtleneck rumpled. He’s already taken off his concealer, the purple bruises going a sickly green hue.

He was so beautiful in his sadness.

“I’ll help you,” Akira whispered, staring at Akechi’s flaring nostrils and his dark, angry eyes.

“And what do you get from it?” 

Akira glanced down at Akechi’s hand, at the glint of diamonds and pain. 

“I need that ring.”

Akechi narrowed his eyes and stared at Akira for a long, hard second, before he reached down and yanked his ring off, throwing it in Akira’s face. The stone caught on Akira’s lip, but it didn’t matter. 

Akechi’s face didn’t change, didn’t soften, but Akira caught something in his maroon eyes.

When he spoke, it was softer than Akira heard since they’d said goodbye in the last timeline— 

“I’ll see you at Leblanc tomorrow morning. Don’t make me wait.”

The recognition wasn’t there, the memories of a timeline Akira couldn’t bear to think of, let alone speak of, were still gone, but… 

Akira blinked back tears as Akechi closed the door without another word, leaving Akira to his silence and shame. 

Eyes burning and hands shaking, Akira reached down to pick up the ring of sorrow he’d gifted to Goro in his fourth timeline, feeling the icy cold agony double inside him. 

Instinctively, Akira dropped the ring as his knees gave out. He buried his forehead against the dirty carpet, clinging to the crown of his head as he stared at the ring twinkle innocently in the overhead light.

It was too much.

Taking in a sobbing breath, Akira’s fingers scrambled at the chain around his neck. It wasn’t coming off— he couldn’t get it off— why couldn’t he get it off? 

With a hoarse gasp, Akira yanked the chain, feeling the metal slice the back of his neck as his ring of sorrow fell to the carpet below, hitting the ground with a thump of finality. 

Akira stared at the rings, willing them to disappear. He didn’t want to touch them, think about them, be around them. But he couldn’t leave them where they fell. Akira wiped his face with the sleeve of his Shujin uniform before he shakily pulled Akechi’s glove off his hand. 

He was careful to not touch either of the rings as he picked them up with the glove, staring down at the innocuous gleam that belied the truth behind a sweet lie.

Though he could feel the thrum through the leather, Akira folded the glove in and slid it into the front pocket of his jacket. He could still feel it, there, the pain waiting for a willing victim, but… 

Maybe Shiho and Jose were right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was going to be called "Fifth time's a charm" but I thought it would be really too obvious. There was a reason I would carefully say "the third timeline" and "Last timeline". Even in the summary I put in the hint. 
> 
> As for Akechi wearing the ring of sorrow, if you read back I mention it quite a few times. Just little hints that one or two people caught, so I'm happy thinking that some of you are going to be super shocked.
> 
> These two have been influenced very negatively since the get-go, but Akira's finally got all three. The ring Goro was wearing was from the second timeline, the one Akira wears is from the fourth, and the one from the 3rd timeline is hanging out on Akira's desk.
> 
> Maybe now that outside influence is affecting them less, the chance to begin to open up will be much easier. 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it took me a while, here's an extra-long chapter.

Watching his friends from the shadows made Akira feel like, well, _Akechi_. Or, rather, the Black Mask.

He knew that it was wrong, that following his friends and _Mishima_ into Kamoshida’s castle was creepy and disturbing and almost kind of stalker-ish, but he really hadn’t known what else he could do. 

Watching them fight and strategize and figure out how to get through the sickly red hallways and unending corridors reminded Akira of what it had been like in the latter half of Shido’s ark in the last timeline. After the watertight doors closed with such a resounding clang that rumbled even now in Akira’s ears, he hadn’t known what to do. 

He’d been in no state to lead then, slack-jawed and shaking, and it’d only been through Futaba and Morgana’s navigating with Yusuke, Makoto, and Ryuji ripped through Shadows that had gotten them out. 

Akira closed his eyes, almost able to _feel_ Ann and Haru’s hands around his, urging him back to the entrance. Each step may as well have been a descent into his own version of hell. Though his mind screamed that this was supposed to be different, he knew otherwise.

Akira deserved the pain. He deserved it all.

No one had said anything— no questions, to inquiries, nothing. They simply allowed Akira that cold, empty moment without interruption.

He’d known it was going to happen. He’d known it was going to happen just as he knew Goro would try to shoot him in Sae’s cognitive world. In all the other timelines, things had gone the same; Akira could remember seeing the shimmer of the Palace around him, how he’d watched Goro Akechi shoot him dead three times without a trace of remorse through the looking glass of the Metaverse.

The fourth time? 

Akira wasn’t stupid. The fourth time had been so very different, even if so much of it followed the same beat. 

_ History doesn’t repeat, but it does rhyme. _

That was pure bullshit because so much of it _did_ repeat. The worst parts certainly did, that was for sure. 

_ No matter what I did or what I said… history didn’t change. It **can’t** change. _

He’d seen the anger and frustration and _hurt_ in Goro’s eyes as he lifted the gun. He’d seen Goro hesitate. He’d watched with slack-jawed horror as Goro’s hand shook. Maybe Akira had been wrong. Maybe there was a chance that things could change, that there’d be a rhyme but not a repetition. 

Until that moment, he’d expected the snippet of words, the bravado, the sarcasm laced with gunpowder that bit like a bullet in the head.

_ “This is how your justice ends.” _

Akira may as well have had the words carved on Akechi’s gravestone because they were the most genuine thing Akira ever heard him say. Three times, three miserable timelines, Akechi whispered the same thing over him as he pressed the barrel of his gun against the crown of Akira’s skull. 

The fourth time, Goro hadn’t said anything at all, and that blazing hurt and disappointment burned like a fire through Akira’s insides.

Akira thought he’d changed things, that finally maybe, just maybe, he’d been able to make things right. He’d gotten so close to Goro, had broken down so many of the walls that they both built up over a lifetime of pain and misery and fathomless dark. 

They’d even kissed— just outside of Mementos, Akira’s cheek stinging from the sharp slap of leather against his cheek. He’d kept the glove, squirreling it away like it was a prized nut, but in the back of Akira’s mind, he’d known that in truth, what he treasured far more was the touch of Goro’s mouth against his. 

Even in his anger and frustration, Akira had seen something different with this Akechi—with this Goro—that had truly convinced him to keep trying, to do everything he could to change things. He could protect Goro from himself, protect his friends from the truth, and he could even—

_I could protect myself. But now look at me,_ Akira thought ruefully as he glanced through the shadows at Mishima and Morgana. 

Fucking **_Mishima_** was doing his job, bumbling through Kamoshida’s Palace in his ridiculous costume, screwing up so much that Akira had taken to killing the harder shadows the floor above just to make sure his friends wouldn’t die. 

There was no way Akira had been _that_ dumb the first time through, had he?

Watching Mishima try to shoot a Berith for a good minute before realizing the damn thing was null to it was certainly enlightening. Seeing the manifestation of Mishima’s rebellion taking form as Kamen Rider Diend had been, well... 

Not off-putting, because of course he’d known Mishima was every bit of the otaku he really was. It was something more visceral, like feeling Morgana’s scratchy tongue against his face in the early morning or when he’d first realized he was back on that fucking train for the fifth time in a row. 

Mishima wasn’t supposed to be there, didn’t fit in like the others, and yet here he was. It was possible to change the timelines... and that just made Akira’s heart hurt worse. 

Why couldn’t this have happened before, in the last timeline? Why had things changed now, after Goro— _his_ Goro— was lost like ash scattering in the wind?

No. Thinking about that only led to misery, and misery would only lead to failure. It sounded stupid to Akira, who’d wrapped himself in his own pain just so he could feel something, but following his friends was better than letting himself wallow in misery and pain.

Following his friends meant that he could keep an eye out for them. Following them meant keeping them safe. 

What was the problem in following them, really?

_Or stalking,_ a little part of Akira’s mind whispered. It sounded too much like Akechi for Akira to feel comfortable.

_Especially now when I’m here, doing exactly what he doesn’t want me to do._

After the fiasco at Akechi’s apartment, Akira had hung the rings on the shelf next to his bed, just at eyesight and yet far enough away that Akira couldn’t feel the agony rip through him like hot lead through bone and sinew. He hadn’t dared touch them, even though he found himself staring at them as though he were looking at a piece of a puzzle that didn’t seem to fit anywhere. 

Part of Akira had hoped that taking away the ring would’ve done something, changed something, but Akechi arrived at 7:15 with his perfectly-pressed Shujin uniform, bruised covered with concealer and scarred hand covered in a lone glove. The false cheerfulness he sent to Sojiro lasted only long enough for the man to turn back to his news program.

Akira couldn’t help but stare at his ungloved hand and the way it so delicately picked up his coffee cup. 

That was the same hand that had tried to shoot him. The same hand that he’d kissed. The same hand that had wrapped itself around Akira, bringing him to a place he could only see in dreams.

Akira hadn’t been able to help but reach into his pocket, thumbing the leather glove. 

_“You’re early.”_

Akechi only managed a placid smile as he raised his coffee cup to his lips. He didn’t say anything, but Akira knew he didn’t need to. 

It’d been a week since then—a week of early morning coffees met with long walks to Shibuya station so they could catch the train the rest of the way to Shujin. It was silent in the same way that night overcame Akira when he was in-between awake and dreams, just before Caroline and Justine would rouse him to do their non-Master’s bidding. 

He hadn’t seen either of them since he’d woken on the train pulling into Shibuya for the fifth time, and Akira wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about that. 

_At least Mishima didn’t take that from me, too,_ Akira thought as he _stalked_ through the shadows, eyes focused on the Bicorn that was giving Mishima, Morgana, and a newly-Awoken Ryuji a run for their money. 

They managed, though. They usually did. 

It didn’t take long for them to come across one of the pedestals for a Will Seed, finding it bare of its poisonous gift. 

“Huh. That’s… weird,” Morgana said.

“What’s weird?” 

Morgana frowned. “I think something’s supposed to be here…”

Morgana, of course, was right. There was something supposed to be there, but Akira was much faster.

Akira should have felt guilty about stealing the Will Seeds, but it was better he had another damn ring of lust than let one of his friends fall victim to it.

Akira felt for his pockets, feeling the pills he’d stashed away next to the Will Seed. If things went too badly and one (or all) of them got knocked out, Akira at least had a full box of Rivivadrin he’d gotten from Takemi. 

He’d managed to sulk through the shadows well enough yesterday to shove a pill down Mishima and Morgana’s throats before they’d gotten themselves killed, but hopefully now that Ryuji had Awoken, he would be able to keep Mishima from fucking up any worse than he already had. 

A part of Akira whispered that Mishima wasn’t doing that badly of a job. He was seventeen, stressed out, and thrust into a completely impossible predicament. Had it not been for pure luck, his wildcard ability, and a healthy dose of Morgana’s healing spells, Akira was pretty sure he would never have made it through the first timeline—especially in that first Palace. 

Once they’d gotten to Madarame’s Palace, they’d figured out a few things that helped them drag through, and the other timelines... they’d gotten easier because even if Akira’s body didn’t remember, his mind did. And, of course, Akira’s ability to negotiate with the shadows had come in handy more than once over his unending year. 

Mishima didn’t have anything but Morgana going for him and _maybe_ some innate gun affinity (probably from all the video games he played.) Still, so much as looking at the ridiculous contraption that loaded up cards made Akira feel nothing short of ridiculous.

“Fuck Kamen Rider,” Akira muttered as he fell back into the shadows, glancing down at his pocket watch. It was just past five and he could tell from the way Morgana was beginning to drag his paws while Ryuji tried not to put too much pressure on his busted leg that they were all but ready to go home. 

It was a good thing they were still getting the hang of the Palaces, Akira admitted as he watched his friends slink off into one of the nearby safe rooms to refresh before heading out. Once Ann Awoke, things would be a lot easier and Akira wouldn’t have to follow them every step of the way.

That, at least, would definitely be a good thing. He’d promised Akechi that he’d meet him at Shibuya station at six so they could head into Mementos to try and collect more information in regards to the list of people connected to the collective. If he showed up late…

Well, Akira had seen Akechi angry, and it was best to be avoided if at all possible. 

_And maybe we’ll get the chance to go into one of the Palaces,_ Akira thought as he adjusted his costume. For some reason that Akira didn’t want to think too much about, Akechi had yet to bring him to any of the collective’s Palaces.

He’d thought about asking, but every time he opened his mouth all that came out was a breath of air with Akechi’s name tasting like acid in the back of his throat. The memory of Akechi’s hand, of the ring of sorrow glittering against his ring finger, was all Akira could see.

That was his fault. He’d been the one who had given that fucking ring to Goro. He’d been wearing it when he died—

_But he doesn’t remember that_ , Akira thought sourly, watching the Phantom Thieves trek back toward the front of Kamoshida’s Castle before squeezing themselves into the kicked-open grate. 

Despite that, Akechi’s memory didn’t matter— that much was clear from the way Akechi started looking down at his own hand every time Akira’s eyes strayed there. The consternation on his face, the frustration and _anger_ evident in those maroon eyes made the hair on Akira’s arms stand at attention, but he couldn’t say anything. He _couldn’t_ say anything. 

Akechi didn’t trust him, which was both unsurprising and yet still ached like the barrel of a gun pressed against Akira’s temple on the fourth cold November night. After all they had gone through, after all they’d done to each other, Akira couldn’t be all that surprised that this Akechi didn’t care about what he had to say. 

So instead, Akira had found themselves going back and forth through the maze of the Path of Sheriruth, looking for something only Akechi seemed to care about. 

Boring as it may have been, at least it meant they were _doing_ something... though what, Akira didn’t quite know.

Glancing back down to the pocket watch he’d stashed in the inner lining of his jacket, Akira barely had time to see the onyx minute hand hit seven before he found himself with his face pressed against the fuzzy red wall, hand twisted behind his back and a harsh, hot breath trailing against the shell of his ear. A strong chest pressed Akira against the wall, one leg uncomfortably locked between his.

“Look what I find lurking in the shadows,” Akechi all but growled against his ear. Had it been another time with another Akechi, this scene would have felt very, very different. “A lost little Joker.”

Instead, all Akira could bite out was a muffled, “You’re following me?” as he turned his face away from the almost wet walls. 

Akechi snorted and just as quickly as he’d grabbed hold of Akira, he let go, leaving Akira cold. 

“Don’t insult my intelligence. Or yours, for that matter,” Akechi darkly replied as he leaned against the wall just next to Akira, putting one foot on the wall behind him as he stared at Akira through his black helmet. There was a hint of a familiar smirk against his lips like a thick balm, and Akira couldn’t help but feel a twinge of relief when he focused on Akechi’s mouth.

This may not have been his Goro, but this Akechi, at least, was closer to someone Akira _did_ know than the shattered husk of a boy he’d spent his time with since arriving back on April 9th. That ring... it'd done what Shido only wished he could have done to Akechi.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Keeping my friends safe,” Akira said after a long, hard pause. “I never said I wouldn’t watch out for them. I figured you of all people would know what it means to stay in the shadows.” 

A perturbed look crossed Akechi’s face for a flicker of a moment before he frowned. “We don’t have time—” 

“We’re going to _make_ time,” Akira insisted. If he was going to do this, going to leave his friends to their own devices, then it was Akira’s responsibility—no, _duty_ —to make sure that his friends didn’t make any mistakes that would get them killed or noticed by Shido and the collective. “We can do it all. We can bring down the collective. You can stop Shido. And I can protect my friends. Crow, come on—”

Whether it was the use of his codename or the way Akira said it, Akechi frowned. 

“You seem certain that your friends are going to get themselves killed. What happened to that unshakeable faith you had in them, hm?” Akechi sneered. “I thought that you said they were strong enough to handle whatever came their way, to handle Shido, but here you are, following them around like—” 

“What, like _you_ did? Like you’re doing now?” 

That, at least, made Akechi pause, rolling his shoulder back. “We’re both aware of the reasons behind me following you. It was absolutely not to _protect_ you, _Joker_.” 

“No need to remind me how much you hate my guts, _Crow_.” 

“It’s so good to know we see eye to eye.” 

But Akechi, for the briefest of moments, looked... 

Not confused. Goro Akechi never looked confused. But there was certainly something unreadable across his face, as though he’d woken from a dream and was trying to put the piece of the puzzle together before he was pulled back into the darkness of his sleep.

“Crow?” Then, softer, Akira reached out for his shoulder and whispered, “Akechi?” 

It wasn’t the real name on the tip of his tongue—the urge to whisper _Goro_ made Akira’s heart ache—but it did its job, pulling Akechi from whatever depths his mind had floated toward in their silence. 

“I’m not going to stop coming here. Not until they’re stronger. Just until they’re stronger.”

_ Not until I know they won’t die. _

“Yes, you’d make sure of that, wouldn’t you?” Akechi’s voice cracked. “Wouldn’t want those you care about to die, I see.” 

“Crow—” 

“Forget it, Joker,” Akechi said after a long moment. “You will never change, even if it means we have to do this again. Even if it means I have to _die_ again, just to prove this is an exercise in futility.” 

The next words that came out of Akira’s mouth tasted like ash in that February morning light. It burned. 

Akira _burned_. 

“You’re not going to die again. I promise.” 

The frown Akira caught through Akechi’s helmet made his heart break. 

“Then prove it,” Akechi replied, voice dark, but there was something akin to acceptance in his eyes as he pulled away from Akira’s hand.

He didn’t want to let go, but this… 

This would have to be enough.

  
  


* * *

In all of Akira’s wildest dreams, he’d never expected Shiho Suzui to become a member of the Phantom Thieves. 

He never expected her to have a Persona, either, but Philomela fit Shiho, her nightingale mask open and soft and sweet with just enough bite. There was a delicateness to her brown costume and the operatic sound of Philomena that felt like a gun going off in Akira’s skull, sending shockwaves through Kamoshida’s castle. 

She was a Curse elemental, able to change cognitions and distort desires.

It was perfect.

And yet... 

Shiho Suzui was never meant to be a Persona user.

_She was supposed to jump,_ another part of Akira’s mind whispered, and he pushed that thought back as far as it could go. 

This time, with Shiho, there was no jealousy. Not, at least, in the same way Akira had felt the burning anger when he’d watched Mishima try and take his place for those first few days. 

No, this was different, because if there was one person who deserved revenge on Kamoshida just as much, if not **more** , than Ann it was Shiho Suzui.

It was the same day that Ann was meant to Awaken—April 15th—and Akira knew that he had to leave the Metaverse before his friends. This was the same day that Maruki would arrive on campus to check in on Sumire. It’d been bad luck that Maruki had seen them every time before, but considering all that they’d already changed, Akira couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible to change that, too.

When he’d brought it up with Akechi, all he’d gotten was a single raised eyebrow, a snort, and then a terse, “Then do it yourself.” 

“So you’re not going to help me?” 

“No. We have an agreement, and that isn’t it.” 

Akechi pretended as though his fist didn’t tighten until his fingernails made half-moon indents on the insides of his palms, and Akira pretended like he didn’t see it.

Of course, Akira had been happy to do it himself. After everything that had happened with the ring and the train and the whole getting resurrected and then killed again by Maruki, Akira could get why Akechi wanted nothing to do with Maruki. It wouldn’t stop him from getting involved when it benefited him, but as of this moment, Akira fully accepted Akechi’s agreement for Akira to waste time on his own. 

This was why Akira was prepared to skulk through the darkened corridors by himself, but when Akira caught sight of Ann _and_ Shiho, tied up in that filthy fucking room by Shadows, he’d nearly burst through the doors without so much as a second thought. 

And yet... 

Ann needed to Awaken. Akira _needed_ her to do it.

“Mmm, let’s start with you, Suzui. Get on your knees—I know you like it rough.”

Akira grabbed hold of the doorframe, hearing the strain of nails against leather.

“Wh—what?” Ann’s voice broke. “Shi...ho?” 

“Don’t listen to him, Ann! Don’t!” 

“Oh, no. Ann _should_ listen to us. Maybe then she’ll know what it means when I tell her to be a good girl. You’ll be my good girl again, won’t yo—”

He had to stop in. He had to stop this, stop Kamoshida, had to protect them, had to protect _Shiho_ , except this Shiho was different. 

She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to speak, to scream, to cry.

But she _did_.

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, _shutupshutup **shut UP**_ —”

And Shiho screamed, so loud and piercing that Akira grabbed at his head, because as beautiful as a nightingale’s song could be, so too was the shrillness of its cry. Akira felt the vomit in the back of his throat, but it was just then that Mishima, Morgana, and Ryuji arrived, Mishima swinging a punch at Kamoshida. 

Of course, Kamoshida was able to avoid it, but it was more than what Akira could do. He didn’t know Shiho, not like the others did, but Akira had seen her as a bird with a broken wing, and they had sat on the roof when it was supposed to be cloudy and she was supposed to jump.

Yet, it had been sunny and they’d sat in that sweet serenity that came with a solemn sort of peace. In Akira’s eyes, that was more than enough. 

There was shock when Shiho and Ann linked hands and shattered through their chains at that very moment, freeing them from their tormenter for that one sweet moment as they Awoke. 

Just for a moment, barely even a second, he thought he caught Shiho’s gaze from his hiding place just outside the door, but he felt the darkness still enveloping him and knew that he was safe. 

Still... Akira could see Shiho Suzui stare right through him.

This was different. All of this was different. 

What if… what if he could tell them? What if he was able to break through? 

What if he could _make_ them remember?

While Akira wished he could have stayed, someone still needed to stop Maruki from seeing the others, especially with their additional member. With the five of them, they would be okay.

They would have to be.

But… what if there could be _more_?

* * *

“That’s... an interesting development.” 

“Interesting? _Interesting_?” 

Akechi hummed, taking a sip of his coffee. “Though not surprising in the least. Have you not been listening to what I’ve had to say since you arrived? I’ve already managed to change a good deal before you even bothered to show up.” 

Akira had listened to every word— _clung_ to every word, really—that Akechi had said since he arrived, but this was different. This... this wasn’t just another Persona user taking his place, like Mishima. 

And yet Akechi only looked _bored_.

Akira wanted to scream, but he could only feel his heart bubble up his throat every time he opened his mouth. 

The diner’s bleak, dreary lighting shrouded Akechi and Akira in the darkness needed to hide away from any prying eyes. Akira had offered to go into Mementos with Akechi, maybe even head up to Akechi’s apartment, but when he’d made the suggestion the look Akechi had given him was cool enough to freeze the blood in Akira’s veins. 

Of course that had been presumptuous of Akira; this Akechi had never invited him up to his apartment, never kissed him pressed up against the door, never led him to the futon on the floor. 

That was a private place for Akechi, a place that was his and his alone. Not for Akira.

Never for Akira. 

Just like his excitement wasn’t for Akechi. 

Still, Akira couldn’t help but feel a little more than frustrated by the lack of interest Akechi had to share, and it was clear Akechi could tell, as well.

“I’m sorry,” Akechi said unapologetically after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Had I known you wanted enthusiasm, I would have tried to muster something up. Here—let me try again.” Akechi blinked and then, just as he had in Shujin Academy, when he arrived at Principal Kobayakawa’s office, let out a little gasp before raising one hand to his mouth in mock shock.

Grabbing a french fry, Akira bit in so hard he felt his teeth rattle. 

“Was that more to your satisfaction?” Akechi deadpanned.

“Mm.” 

“Still,” Akechi continued, glancing around the diner to make sure their theatrics hadn’t caught any eyes, “it should be helpful to your friends. Perhaps you’ll have less of a desire to go sneaking off behind them.” 

_Fat chance of that,_ Akira thought as he ate another fry, trying his best not to look too long at Akechi. He knew Akechi was right, but it didn’t mean Akira wasn’t to see the smugness across his face.

And, more than that, there really was a difference between seeing things change and knowing things had changed. The spreadsheets and documents Akechi had shown him on his laptop were impressive, sure, but watching a girl who had nearly died Awaken... 

“You seem to have a thing for the broken ones.” 

The french fry fell out of Akira’s hand. 

“Ex—excuse me?” 

Akechi, however, only shrugged. “You have a thing for the broken ones,” Akechi repeated as he blinked up through long lashes at Akira. He reached over, snatching the french fry off the table. “Yoshizawa, Suzui.” 

**_Me_.**

The word was unspoken, but Akira heard it loud and clear. Even if Akechi was too proud to say it out loud, he remembered the engine room. He remembered Maruki’s Palace. He remembered just enough—

But not enough.

Akechi was broken; he’d been broken since he was a child, abandoned by his father and left alone by his mother. He’d been broken by the system, by the orphanages, by the laboratories, by Mementos. He was cruel and vindictive, yes, but Akira knew that there was something inside Akechi that was still the little boy who wanted nothing more than to be a hero, but that had been morphed and changed, and yes—broken. 

Akira _did_ have a thing for the broken ones, didn’t he?

He stared at Akechi for a long moment, the sounds of the diner lulling them into an uncertain kind of peace, before he finally said, “Yeah. I guess I do.” 

Akechi nodded, though if it were for himself or Akira, Akira didn’t know, before turning back to his computer. 

“You can’t save them all, Kurusu.” 

_You can’t save me_.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t try.” 

Akechi only frowned, before spinning his computer, showing a name highlighted in orange. 

“Our first target.” 

Akira stared at the name, one that he hadn’t expected to see. 

“Shinichi... Yoshizawa?”

* * *

The first time Akira saw Kasumi—Sumire— Yoshizawa was in the library in his third week at Shujin. 

He’d taken to hiding in the study area or pressed up against one of the bookcases during his breaks from class, avoiding any curious eyes. Akechi left him alone during lunchtime, mostly so that he could head over to the police station or whatever news broadcast he was filming for the week over at the television station for the rest of his day. Considering he didn’t have the Phantom Thieves to hang out with, his own company seemed good enough; the few students who had talked to him thus far were just fans of Akechi’s who wanted to learn more about the detective prince. 

There were a lot of things Akira could handle, but after the last timeline dealing with Akechi’s fangirls and boys, Akira wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of them. After making it clear that Akira didn’t care to explain how he knew the oh so famous Detective Prince (loudly enough for the library girl to all but cower in fear as she stuttered for him to please not yell) people left him alone.

Akechi, of course, had found the entire situation nothing short of hilarious, though Akira knew that Akechi viewed a lot of his fans the same way one would a hangnail that was pulled up to the cuticle. 

_ "What, Kurusu? Not a fan of the limelight?”  _

_ “Like you are?”  _

_ “If you know me as well as you claim, you know the answer to that.” _

It was still surprising how quickly Akechi had managed to amass his fame in barely even two months. Of course he had the collective and Shido to partially thank for that, as well as Yaldabaoth. Had he been this popular at his old school, when things started to change and he grew more accustomed to the limelight? Or was this a new level of popularity spurred on by Akechi’s crime-busting spree in February and March of his repeated year?

Of course, Akira _could_ ask Akechi, but the basic camaraderie they’d begun to build back was still on a hair-trigger, and Akira knew when it was better to keep his mouth closed and his head down. 

The rumors still got out about what Akira had done, but as far as he could tell it hadn’t come from Mishima this time. Akira hadn’t so much as said a peep to Kamoshida, but it wouldn’t surprise Akira if Kamoshida were just that much of an asshole that he’d ruin Akira’s life just to make himself feel bigger and stronger. 

It wasn’t a bad guess for this to not just be about Akira, but also about Akechi of all people. 

Kamoshida hadn’t come out and said it, but he’d always been a jealous and petty man. All he cared about was the volleyball team and his own ego, and Akira wasn’t stupid enough to assume that Kamoshida would be pleased about having the famous Detective Prince soaking up even a fraction of the attention Kamoshida thought he deserved. 

But there was no way to get at Akechi himself. In the eyes of all Japan, Akechi was nothing but the perfect golden boy, the pride of any school that would take him, a shining example for any young student to look up to. Even if Kamoshida wanted to ruin Akechi’s life, the only way there was to make Akira as miserable as humanly possible.

It was strange, though, that Kamoshida had yet to even say a word to Akira. He’d expected goading and jeers like Kamoshida had given him in all the other timelines, but Akira hadn’t gotten so much as a glance. 

Maybe releasing Akira’s criminal record was enough to settle whatever one-sided pissing contest Kamoshida had going on, but that, of course, didn’t mean Akira left Kamoshida to his own devices. 

After what had happened with Shiho and her near-jump, Akira had taken it on himself to hack into Kamoshida’s office PC (thank you, Futaba) downloading backup copies of what Kamoshida had done and so proudly documented from his hard drive. Though it had made his stomach churn, Akira sifted through the emails, the pictures, the _videos_ , thinking of how he could keep his friends safe until they managed to steal Kamoshida’s heart.

The answer came to him in a way that made Akira’s stomach clench when he noticed the whistle around Kamoshida’s neck hanging next to his computer. 

There was one thing he _could_ do. One thing he shouldn’t have even thought about, but every time he blinked his eyes, all he could do was see the glimmer of crushed diamonds. 

That evening, after helping Akechi scour for one of the names on his list—a man named Hidetoshi Yoshizawa who worked for the Psience lab Wakaba Isshiki belonged to before her death—Akira slunk back into the school, the ring of sorrow from his desk wrapped in Akechi’s glove.

If the ring had made him feel the way he had, had made Akechi feel the way he had, then it would be enough for Kamoshida. All he needed was to make Kamoshida despair long enough that he would be so preoccupied that he wouldn’t touch Ann or Shiho or even Mishima before they’d finished going through the Palace. 

And it had worked wonderfully. Though Kamoshida’s Palace had gotten darker and the shadows became stronger, it seemed that for the volleyball players at Shujin, Christmas had come early. Kamoshida opted to cancel practice while he brooded in his office, barely coming out for more than a few required minutes to tell every gym class to “do whatever you want” before he disappeared back inside his dark, dank office.

Which was why Akira’s heart dropped down to his stomach when he caught sight of Sumire in the library—eyes wide and glassy and so, so pained— with Kamoshida’s whistle gripped in her hand so tightly Akira could see the blood droplets making their way between her fingers. 

She was sitting there, tucked away between the bookshelf for dictionaries and the furthest-back desk, staring off into the distance with a look that made Akira think of that terrible moment he’d seen too many times before where Kasumi died and so did Sumire. 

The stale library air made Akira’s throat burn, the memory of what Akechi had said just a few nights before ringing in his ears.

Shunichi Yoshizawa had a Palace.... and connections to the collective. 

And he was their first target. 

Akira took a quick glance around the library, but he was greeted by the empty silence a beautifully warm spring day called for. No one could see her down there. 

No one except for him, that was.

White-hot rage boiled through Akira’s guts as he looked at Sumire’s blotchy cheeks and heard the thready, pained cries ripped from her throat as she tried her best to fold in on herself. If Kamoshida laid a fucking _hand_ on her—

_It would be my fault._

Pushing that nauseating thought to the back of Akira’s mind, Akira slipped down to his knees. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do or say, wasn’t sure how he was supposed to comfort the girl who wore her sister’s smile and hid her own secret shame. So, he reached into his pocket, pulling out Akechi’s glove.

“Hey.” 

Sumire didn’t seem to see him; she stared right through him to something Akira couldn’t see, to a place that only made him ache in that sad, empty way that he couldn’t put words to. 

“Are you okay?” 

He didn’t touch her, fearful that moving would frighten her like a doe in the woods. Now that he was closer, Akira carefully inspected what little skin he could see for the tel-tale signs Kamoshida seemed to like putting on his female students. 

Nothing.

That, at least, let Akira let out a soft breath. 

That... that was good, at least. 

Sumire’s clothes looked unrumpled, hair still in that ridiculous high bow Kasumi had always worn, though she looked as though she’d seen a ghost. 

She said nothing, which Akira wasn’t sure he was happy about.

Akira reached out, waiting to see if Sumire pulled away. When she didn’t, he gently touched her hand.

Sumire pulled away, slapping Akechi’s glove right out of his hand. She cupped her bleeding hand close to her chest, the panic in her eyes like Shadows negotiating for their lives. 

He didn’t apologize because he knew that wasn’t something she would want. Instead Akira leaned back, giving her a few inches of space. It wasn’t enough for her to stand and try to run with the ring, but it was enough for him to seem a little less threatening. 

“Where’d you get that?” 

“I...found it.” Then, almost grudgingly, she added, “... the gym.” 

Akira pursed his lips and nodded, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Oh... Any reason you were there? Are you in a sports club or something?”

Sumire merely blinked at him, almost as though the very question was in a language she didn’t understand. 

Mouth agape, head cocked to the side, Sumire took a long moment before finally managing, “I... I don’t know.” 

In all of the timelines, all of the days and nights of training and dating and blatantly avoiding in some cases, Akira had he seen her this... despondent. Even comparing the mess she had become in Maruki’s Palace seemed to be almost _quaint_ in comparison to the gaunt, sick look Sumire currently sported. Even her monosyllabic replies struck a chord somewhere deep in Akira’s guts. 

Could the ring have truly affected her this badly? 

The others had touched the rings before—hell, Akechi and Akira had worn them days, if not weeks, at a time—but nothing compared to the way Sumire seemed to react. 

“Can I?” Akira asked, keep his voice soft and warm as he gestured to her hand with the glove.

Something faintly like annoyance crossed Sumire’s face, catching Akira off guard for a brief second, but just as quickly as it came it was gone. 

“Why should I?” 

That was a weird question. Why wouldn’t she? 

“Because you’re bleeding,” was the response Akira finally settled on. “And I should put it back. You wouldn’t want Kamoshida to think you stole that, would you?” 

Sumire blinked at him, almost as if the words rolled off her, before she finally looked down at her hand.

“Oh,” was all she said, staring down at her dispassionately before slowly opening her fingers. She seemed _surprised_ that the whistle was there. “I... I guess. Yes, that would be... for the best.” But the faraway sound in her voice was still there, almost as though this were happening to another person in a far-off place, rather than right there on the floor between a desk and a bookshelf.

The whistle fell into Akira’s waiting hand, and though he tried to give her a warm smile, it felt more like a grimace. The glove did only so much to take away the stinging bite of the ring of sorrow. “Thank you.” 

The effects of the ring didn’t seem to wear off as quickly as they had when Akira had taken the ring off, but Sumire was going through a pain that Akira couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Yes, he’d lost Goro, but it was nothing like losing a twin. 

If Akira were a better man, he would have stayed with Sumire, made conversation with her, told her the cheesy little jokes he knew she loved, or gotten her a snack from the bread shop on the first floor. He’d been her boyfriend for long enough to know exactly what she liked, but Akira just couldn’t do it. 

He couldn’t be her prince charming. Not now. Not... not again.

Instead, Akira lifted the whistle and glove up in a little gesture, whispering out a quick Thank you,” before getting back to his feet, slipping the ring and glove into his pocket. When he offered Sumire his hand, she declined with a short, pointed jerk of her head. 

Akira’s hand faltered. Never, in any timeline, had Sumire been so curt with him. Even after he’d cheated on her with, well... _everyone_... she’d still been far more cordial than Akira had deserved. 

Her snub was like a shock to his system, and Akira’s hand faltered before falling to his side.

She’d been through so much already. Now, with her father...

“Listen, I need to tell you something—”

“Oh, _finally_. I’ve been looking for you. What are you—” 

Akira spun around, glancing at Akechi’s distasteful sneer for a flash of a second before he pulled into an impossibly wide, dead-eyed smile.

“Oh, _Yoshizawa-san,_ ” Akechi replied, words rolling off his tongue like venom dribbling from the bite of a serpent. “I didn’t see you there.” 

Sumire looked down at her hands before she rubbed them against her black tights, leaving little dark patches of blood in their wake. 

“H—hello, Akechi-san.”

The faux-concern in Akechi’s voice felt like a toothache, saccharine sweet and cloying. “Are you quite alright? Did you have a fall? Should I get the nurse?” 

“She’s fine,” Akira quickly answered, forcing his hand as deep into his pocket as it could go. “Akechi, we should go.” 

Akechi glanced down, a perturbed expression flitting across his face before the mask went back on. “I... see.” Then, with more bravado than he had any right to have, Akechi stepped forward, extending his hand to Sumire. “May I help you to your feet, Yoshizawa-san?” 

“N... no thank you,” she said as she wiped her face with her palm, leaving a streak of blood across her cheek. Then, with a little more resolve, she sniffled and managed a wane smile that pinched at her sallow cheeks. “I “ll be fine, Akechi-san. K... Kurusu-sempai. Just dropped my pen is all.”

Akechi didn’t reply, but Akira could see the little tick in his eyebrow that did all the talking.

“Good luck finding it, then,” Akechi said as he grabbed hold of Akira’s elbow tight enough to make Akira wince. “We’ll leave you to it.” 

Akira tripped over his feet on the way out, Akechi’s firm grip the only thing keeping him from catapulting over his jelly legs. There was an almost _familiarity_ to the touch, and though Akira felt stupid he welcomed it like a moth welcomed the flame.

The empty hallway greeted them, but from the way Akechi huffed and dragged him up the stairwell toward the roof, the emptiness hadn’t been enough. 

Akechi always had been a stickler for his secrets. 

“What was _that_?” 

“She fell,” Akira flatly replied, rubbing at the place Akechi had gripped him tight. It didn’t hurt so much as remind Akira of a time when Akechi had gripped him tight. It was another time and another place, one that Akira was slowly beginning to accept was no longer there. “I don’t get why you’re so upset—” 

“Did you tell her anything?” There was something bordering on wildness in Akechi’s eyes that made the hairs on the back of Akira’s neck stand at attention. “Did you tell her about her _father_?” 

“Are you stupid? Why would I?” 

The cold laugh caught Akira by surprise. Akechi looked angry, yes, but there was something else there that Akira just couldn’t understand—

Was that... _jealousy_? 

Akechi continued, the words nearly frothing out of his mouth. “I’ve already told you that you can’t be with your friends, and this is exactly why. It’s too dangerous, especially considering what we have to do. And you agreed.”

“Yes, but—” 

“She is under **_his_** thumb right now, Kurusu. We have no idea what exactly he can do or if he’s involved in all of this. And with what we have to do once this Kamoshida business is over—”

“I _know_ that,” Akira tersely replied. “I was—” 

“Just watching out for her?” Akechi growled. “Making sure that Maruki sets his attention on you the moment he arrives? Ruining our chances at getting information on the collective?” That last part was more of a whisper between clenched teeth. 

No. That wasn’t what Akira had been doing at all. Except... 

It was that, wasn’t it?

Akechi reached up, running a hand through his hair before pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is getting ridiculous, Kurusu. Stalking of them through Kamoshida’s Palace or accosting your little Cinderella in the library. What exactly _did_ you say to her, anyway—she looked like you killed her damn puppy.” 

“Nothing.” Akira hadn’t meant to sound as defensive, but even to Akira’s ears it sounded too high-pitched.

“Then what were you _going_ to say to her?” 

Shit. So Akechi _had_ heard. 

If Akira were honest with himself, he didn’t even know what he was going to say to Sumire. Tell her to stay away from Kamoshida? Spill his guts about what had happened all those timelines before? Apologize for failing her yet again? Letting her know her father wasn’t the man she thought he was?

It didn’t matter. Whatever he was going to say was gone, and Akira would just have to avoid her more than he had in the last timeline. Maybe her finding the ring would be enough for her to keep her distance.

“Nothing. It wouldn’t mean anything to you, anyway.”

“You’re right on that point. She _doesn’t_ mean anything to me.” 

Akira frowned as he watched Akechi stalk toward the edge of the building. He didn’t do anything as undignified as slip his hands between the metal fence, but he did stare out into the empty sky. 

What exactly was Akira supposed to do? Why did it feel like nothing he could do would ever be right? 

He felt... he felt like Mishima, Akira realized with no little amount of chagrin. He was behaving like Mishima had from the moment he’d gotten his Persona, bumbling over himself, hoping that no one noticed his glaring mistakes. 

For Mishima, it’d been Akira who’d watched from the darkness. 

For Akira?

Akechi no longer needed the darkness to hide.

“Stay away from your broken toys, Kurusu. We don’t have time for that—not if we’re going to go into her father’s head.” 

With that, Akechi turned and left him there, staring at the looming sky above.


End file.
